


The Mockingjay's Fire

by nerdhourariel



Series: The 100th Games Universe [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hunger Games, Multi, Sequel, sequel to the 100th games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 80,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4495353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdhourariel/pseuds/nerdhourariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of the 100th Games, the spark is burning again, but the Mockingjay isn't as beloved as she once was and personal tragedies threaten to overwhelm Katniss as she tries to keep the revolution alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mockingjay: Cold Reality - Katniss and Beck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Beck struggle in the aftermath of the Games.

Katniss –

 _She’s in the Capitol_.

_The Capitol._

It’s not real. It can’t be real. This isn’t happening.

The bruises on Peeta’s knuckles, Haymitch’s nose, it all makes sense. He left her.

I reinjure his nose.

“You son of a bitch, you were supposed to save her!”

There’s a pinch of something sharp in my back and then everything blurs.

I hear a louder commotion as Annie yells and doctors rush towards her and it all fades in and out. Then I see Beck desperately walking away from his bed, struggling to hold onto anything to stand upright and fight against the doctors trying to stop him. He’s watching me as he walks and he doesn’t need to ask. I don’t even know if he can.

I hear the words again, this time from Peeta’s mouth, and somehow it hurts worse when he says it.

_She’s in the Capitol._

I wake in a different bed than before, this one located in a room that I have all to myself. The lights are dim and I don’t even know how late or early it is. For a moment I close my eyes, willing Ivy to be there, willing for all of it to be untrue, for it all to be some kind of nightmare.

But I don’t wake up and it doesn’t go away. It’s reality and there’s no escaping it. I sit up in bed half expecting someone to be there to stop me, but there’s no one here. A part of me is thankful for it. I can’t talk to anyone now. I can’t see anyone. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do or what I should be trying to accomplish. My only thought is on Ivy trapped in the Capitol and what they could be doing to her.

Are they hurting her? Are they killing her? Could I trade my life for hers or will Snow just hurt her more if I try? What kind of Hell is she in?

It smells too clean in here like all the chemicals designed to eliminate illness and injury. I have to get out of here. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I have to get out.

I don’t run. I don’t draw attention to myself. I avoid anyone that can try to stop me. I almost expect to see Gale again but he never appears. I’m grateful that he doesn’t.

That’s another deep pit of endless thought that I don’t want to travel down. He’s a soldier for Thirteen and I’ve been the Capitol’s portrait of a grateful Victor. Peeta and I have spent years under Snow’s thumb. We’ve been threatened. We’ve had our children paraded in front of cameras only for our son to be killed and our daughter captured. And Gale has been living in Thirteen. He’s been talking of revolution and war and freedom while hidden away from all of it, while his family had to survive without him.

I find a dark corner in some forgotten tunnel where pipes run overhead, the sound echoing all around me. I sit alone in the darkness while my thoughts travel back to the Capitol, back to Ivy. She was so scared and broken and the arena was going to destroy her. That’s the last image I have of her. Her fear, her heartbreak, it’s the first thing that emerges.

But she was brave too. She was so strong and brave and she fought so hard. That’s the next image that comes to my mind. Her standing before the reaping, standing as tall as she could, trying to keep the attention on her, to make herself seem like the formidable threat.

And after that I remember a toddler with messy brown hair trying to walk. And she used to smile when she was a baby. She smiled all the time, even for the cameras. And that smile was real back then. She didn’t know the difference yet.

Now the Capitol has her and I can’t do a damn thing about it. And all that bravery won’t mean a thing in Snow’s hands.

I can’t do anything. I can’t help anyone. I’m not a savior. I’m not their hero. I’m nothing. I can’t even protect my own family, how am I supposed to lead a rebellion? How am I supposed to be the spark that they want?

I’m pretty sure none of them even want me anymore. And if they still did, they won’t once they learn how much the Capitol can hurt me, when they learn the Capitol can beat me. My son is dead, thrown into an arena just to make me suffer. My daughter is in their hands, her fate tied to my own and if I fight she could die. They won. They’ve already won and I haven’t even decided what steps to take. And everyone who follows, they’ll die. They’ll fight and die and I can’t do anything. I can’t even move.

I can’t save Ivy. I couldn’t save Bas. Peeta’s probably next. And then I’ll be alone. Just like Snow wants.

I feel the tears burn as my throat constricts and my breathing comes in shallow, short bursts. The air is getting thinner or so it feels. I can’t move. My hands curl into themselves as I back up against the metal pipe, hitting it hard. I still can’t breathe.

And then I hear growling.

The mutts. No. They can’t be here. I haven’t heard them in years. They only come in nightmares. They don’t haunt me when I’m awake.

But I see it anyway. I see it charging at me. I hear it screaming and its Ivy’s screams. It’s her cries. And it has Bas’ eyes and it doesn’t matter how much air I try to suck into my lungs, I can’t breathe.

I can’t do this. I can’t fall apart. I have to save her. I have to. I can’t let her die. I can’t let her stay there. I can’t let her become another ghost crawling and burying itself in my mind. I can’t let her become another mutt.

I have to say it. I have to calm down. I have to breathe.

Start with something simple. Start with what you know. Get through the day. But Ivy was what I knew. And Bas what was I knew. What do I know now?

My name is Katniss Mellark. It was Katniss Everdeen. My home is District Twelve. Right now I’m in District Thirteen. I’m married to Peeta Mellark. We have, had, two children. Bas is dead. Ivy is…Ivy is…she’s in the Capitol.

“Mrs. Mellark, you have to come with me now,” a woman’s voice says in the darkness. “Take her back to her room.”

Someone grabs my shoulders and I’m screaming and struggling against them. They get me to my room again and put me back to sleep.

When I wake up Peeta is there. He looks tired. He has deep bags under his eyes, his wrinkles forming crevasses around them. He looks like he’s aged ten years in two days.

“You look terrible,” I croak out as I sit up in my bed. He looks down, the hint of a smile on his face. Twenty years we’ve done this, knowing how to bring each other back even when it’s all gone to Hell or worse. It was always about survival. Even when there was no arena to fight and die in, it was always about surviving the next thing. We did that together. We’ll do this together too.

“Can’t all look as good as you,” he returns. He slides his chair closer to me, his hand reaching but falling on the bed instead, “We should probably talk about what’s going on, right?”

I nod, “There’s a lot.”

“I saw Gale.”

I let out a puff of air through my nostrils, that’s a wound that hasn’t started to fade yet. I don’t think it will. Peeta quickly counters, “We won’t start there.”

“I can’t talk about her or what they’re doing…I can’t…every time I think about…” The shortness of breath comes back again and I close my eyes as the panic rises. Peeta’s hand falls onto mine and squeezes, rooting me to the spot and stopping it before it starts.

“I can’t either.” And when I look at him I can see the hard lines getting deeper and the lost look in his eyes. I turn my hand over and knot my fingers in his, squeezing back.

“We need to get her back.” He nods at my words and I know the way. I know what I have to do. I know what Panem needs. We need to win a war for her and I’ll do it.

And Peeta knows what I mean even when I don’t say what’s beneath the words, “Katniss, it’s going to be a war. And the Mockingjay…I’ve heard Plutarch talking and I met President Coin. All of this is going to get worse.”

“It’s already worse,” I swallow, “What about Haymitch?”

Peeta’s fist clenches involuntarily before he relaxes it, “They threw him into some room somewhere to dry out. Apparently they don’t like that kind of thing here.”

“Good.” I imagine him suffering in some dark hole, crying for relief with no one there to give it. And I don’t feel better at the thought but still my anger burns.

We both fall silent, our hands entwined.

“Effie’s here,” he says, breaking the quiet of the room. “I don’t know how but she got here or they got her here.”

“Did she bring her outfits?”

“I hope so. Because the clothes here…I can’t imagine her being happy about it.”

And even in this pit of whatever mix of despair and hopelessness we’re both feeling we manage to laugh. It’s small, it’s barely even there, but it’s enough to get us through this one second of existence and push us onto the next second.

It’s enough for us to survive.

Beck –

I taste cotton in my mouth as the haze of the world falls onto me. I don’t open my eyes, burying my face into the soft pillow instead. I breathe in, smelling salt air and the hint of something else, something familiar and foreign at the same time. It’s like spice and ash and oak, the scent of woods and earth. It’s all encompassing, pure in my mind, as my eyes remain closed. But it begins to fade with each passing second. And I can’t remember the smell exactly, it’s a mixture of all the smallest memories I have of it where nothing is clear, except for the person it belongs to.

I finally open my eyes to see _her_ lying there beside me. The blankets are pulled up to her waist as sunlight streams into her hair from the small window. And I can’t believe it. I can’t believe she’s here and I’m here and Hell, I can’t believe we both survived. How did we survive? How did we get here?

I realize I don’t care.

The cotton taste sticks to my tongue. I hope it’ll fade the more I wake but it only seems to be getting stronger. I push it away. I push every thought away. It doesn’t matter how we got here. We’re here, that’s what counts.

I glance around and I realize we’re on a boat. I can hear the waves gently slapping against the bottom, rocking it up and down. I have a boat?

Okay, maybe I want to know how I got her to stay on a boat, and how I finally got my boat. I’ll ask later. I’ll ask when the shock wears off. And maybe that’s what I was left with after it all ended, a bunch of fogged up memories that aren’t clear, or maybe I’m dying and this is my last moment. Or maybe we’re both dead and the afterlife is real. And if it is, well then screw it, I’ll be happy with dying.

My eyes fall back onto her. She’s fast asleep, one arm draped across my chest, the other on her pillow. Her mouth is half open in her slumber and for a moment I forget to breathe.

I feel warm. I feel like crying. I feel…I’m overwhelmed. It just keeps rushing over me the longer I stare at her. At her dark hair and closed eyes that I know hide the brightest blue’s I’ve ever seen. I want her to wake up. I want to talk to her, to see her, to feel her closer to me.

I turn my whole body towards her and let one hand fall onto her hair, brushing it back, threading my fingers through it. She stirs. I should feel guilty for trying to wake her, but I can’t bring myself to feel it. I’ll apologize later. Maybe I could make her breakfast or something. I’ll make her a thousand breakfasts if it meant spending every morning like this.

I can only really cook one thing. And by cook I mean fry it. It’s fish. That’s the only thing I can make. Does she like fish? Would she eat it for breakfast? I should find out what she likes. I can learn to make that. I’ll make it every day.

I watch her eye lids open and my throat almost closes up. She blinks before opening and closing her mouth as she wakes. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen her sleep like this, so calm and at peace. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her not trying to stay alive and keep it together.

I feel a flash of pain but I fight it off. It’s just a memory. This is real. This is what matters. This is where I want to be.

But where else am I supposed to be?

No. It doesn’t matter.

Stay in the moment. Stay right here.

Stay with her.

“Hi,” she says, her voice thick with sleep. She moves closer to me, fighting to stay awake as a small smile crosses her features. I feel my own smile in return.

“Hi,” I tell her, my hand resting on her cheek. My eyes run over every inch of her, looking for any scars, any signs of what we’ve been through, but I see nothing.

She closes her eyes again, drifting off. I gently shake her. “Hey, stay awake.”

Her eyes find mine and her smile is gone so mine disappears too.

“This isn’t real,” she whispers.

I nod. I know it isn’t. It can’t be. How could it? I know the truth buried in a vague memory of a crying mother and the news that tore a hole in my chest the size of the arena.

“But I want it to be.” I swallow the cotton taste down, “I don’t want you to be…I don’t want to wake up and you’re not there.”

“I don’t think your parents would be too happy with you sleeping the whole revolution away.”

“I think they’d prefer that to me being anywhere near it.”

Her smile returns and I feel my heart break all over again. What are they doing to her? Are they taking that smile? Are they burning away the best parts of her? Is she even still alive?

“You have to wake up,” she tells me in a forceful tone. “You can’t fall apart. That’s what he wants.”

“We’re going to get you back. I’ll get you back.”

“You can’t do that if you stay in here.”

I let out a breath.

“You know I’m right,” she chimes and I feel the warmth again. And I want this for real. I want the lazy mornings, late night talks, even the arguments that end in making up and everything in between. I want a life with her. A life where we don’t have to worry about Games or the Capitol threatening to destroy us. I just want to be happy. And I want it with her.

“Five more minutes,” I whisper.

Her fingers splay out across my chest as she tucks her head underneath mine. My chin falls on top of her hair and I breathe her in, my arms wrapping around her, holding her close to me.

I close my eyes and wake to a bright light above my bed and pain across my stomach. But it’s nothing compared to the ache in my head and chest that just won’t go away. And it doesn’t matter how much morphling they give me, there’s no curing this pain.

I hear the heart monitor and my throat swells and my eyes glass over. I choke back a sob as the tears start to fall and it just won’t stop hurting.

“It’s okay,” my mother says gently, her hand running through my hair, another holding onto my wrist while each sob gets worse and worse as it goes on. And I can’t breathe. I can’t feel anything but the pain.

And there’s no sunlight here. There’s no promise of tomorrow down here. There’s no hope or happiness and Ivy’s in the Capitol and God knows what they’re doing to her.

And a part of me wishes I was dead so that I didn’t have to feel this. But I know better, I know that’s not the answer. I’m alive and I have to keep going.

They won’t kill her. They can’t. It would be stupid to kill her. Katniss will fight to get her back, so will Peeta. And I’ll help too. We can get her back.

But until that happens it’s going to hurt. I have to get used to it. And I will. But right now I can’t even think about what getting used to this is going to feel like.

“What are they doing to her, mom?” My voice cracks and breaks as I repeat the question.

“I don’t know.” She pulls me closer, holding my head and all I can do is cry.

When it ends, when I’m drained and no more tears come, I stare at the ceiling. My bandages scratch at my skin and I hear my father walk into the room.

“How’s…” My mother starts.

“Peeta’s with her,” my father answers. “Is he…”

“I’m awake. You don’t need to whisper,” I say, my voice flat and toneless.

My father takes a seat next to me. “I’m sorry.”

I turn to look at him and he’s barely keeping himself awake. I’ve seen this a few times before, when he would come back from the Games, when he was sent to the Capitol. He’s worked himself tirelessly for something.

“Have you slept?” I ask and my father smiles before shaking his head.

“Had to wait for you to wake up, Captain.” He smirks and I let out a sigh. When I was little and we would go out on the boat, there was a time when I insisted on being the Captain of the vessel. I thought I had to make the commands even though I was in no position to be running any kind of ship. He played along, called me Captain for years, until I got too old for it.

“Don’t…we’re not even on a boat.”

He shrugs, “I like the nickname.” His smirk fades and he’s serious when he tells me, “You did good in there. You did.”

“I did good? I didn’t save Grover. I killed people. How is that good? I couldn’t help when Bas…”

And then it’s my mother’s turn to speak, “Hey,” she says, her voice harsh and serious and I turn to her.

She swallows, “Don’t stay in that arena.” She stares into me and I know where those words come from, I know the nightmares and the memories and the years she spent on her own ghosts. “Promise me. You don’t live in that arena.”

I nod. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I need,” she says giving me a kiss on the forehead. My father watches her, a light and fire in his eyes that I haven’t seen in years. And maybe it’s the fact that they’re away from the eyes of the Capitol or that I’m safe, but there’s something more, there’s a freedom in this.

Sometime after that both of my parents fall asleep in chairs beside each other, my father’s head falling onto my mother’s shoulder. I don’t sleep. I’ve slept too much in the past however many days it’s been. I think three.

I’m quiet as I get out of my bed, my hand falling to the bandage at my side as a twinge of pain reminds me why I was lying there in the first place. I push past it and walk out the door of my room.

I find myself walking down hallway after hallway until I’m out of the medical wing. I’m surprised no one stops me. Security must be pretty lax around here if I can just walk out. How did this place survive destruction if they can’t even be bothered to watch their patients?

I’m not complaining. I’m glad to be out of there, even as another wave of pain radiates out of my midsection. It serves to make me walk slower. It must be the middle of the day. People walk past me with what looks like schedules tattooed on their arms. They all wear the same outfits, grey work uniforms, everyone moving like they all know exactly what they’re supposed to be doing even as throes of more citizens join them.

I stop in the middle of a large open space that breaks off into more corridors with elevators and what I can only imagine are apartments rising up all along the walls. There are grated metal catwalks with each level and my eyes travel up towards where I can’t see. How high does it all go? It’s like a whole city beneath the ground.

Crowds of people pass by me, none of them paying me much mind, all of them focused on their schedules or somewhere they should be running too. A few of them do actually run.

A woman with grey hair and deep wrinkles walks by with Plutarch Heavensbee. There are two others with them, both wearing black. I’m sheltered by a group of men all talking about some filtration issue, my lack of uniform going unnoticed.

I don’t know what makes me want to follow them but I do. It’s something more interesting to do than to walk around. Maybe they have a plan to get Ivy back, maybe they have something more to say than what’s been told to me.

Either way I want to know.

“It’s too dangerous and we don’t even know if she’s capable of talking to these people,” The woman says in a stern voice.

“President Coin, she needs to see that others are fighting, that her district is fighting and winning. It’ll be even more motivation for her to want to be the Mockingjay,” Plutarch argues. He shaved his beard since I last saw him. He almost looks normal, human, not like the head Gamemaker that almost killed me.

“And what makes you think that after Twenty Five years she’s interested now. That they’ll want to follow her.”

“Her daughter’s in the Capitol. Look what happened when her son died, that speech she made. She can make another speech. Something about fighting for her children, that she won’t stop and they shouldn’t stop until their children are safe. We can film it even, broadcast it to the districts.”

I keep a reasonable distance, close enough to hear but not close enough to be seen. I can’t help but think I shouldn’t be doing this. I should probably go somewhere else. I don’t need to hear about the war, right?

No. I’m pretty certain I do. And I’m even more certain Ivy would be doing the same thing that I am right now. She would want to know if she had the opportunity to.

“It’s not enough.” President Coin stops in front of a room. I stop at the corner where I can listen. A few other people in Thirteen pass by me, these ones spare me a glance. I guess they’re not used to seeing others without a schedule or place to be, or walking around in their hospital garb.

“She has to visit the rebels in her district. She has to see what’s at stake and they have to know that she’s still out there.”

I scoff just as President Coin does. “I think she knows better than anyone what’s at stake and I think she’s known it for years, she just didn’t care enough to face it. Mr. Heavensbee, we and the rest of Panem are done waiting for a savior. The rescue of the tributes of the 100th Games as well as the death of Basil Mellark and the incarceration of Ivy Mellark has provided us with an opportunity for others to join our cause. Hopefully it will be enough to change the tide.”

Plutarch is quick to interject, his voice quick and charismatic, full of intelligence and an air of superiority. “Madam President with all due respect, hopefully is not a guarantee, it’s a shit maybe. And when you don’t get enough to change the tide, you’ll all drown. If she goes to Twelve and makes a speech for those rebels and we broadcast it, we have a spark again. If we provide a line for them to attach onto and we let the other districts know that Twelve of all places is willing to stand with the Mockingjay again, then I assure you we will have the revolution we should have had twenty five years ago.”

There’s a silence that follows before Coin’s flat voice sighs in agreement. And I can’t see it but I know Plutarch is smiling, or at least, his eyes are mimicking whatever he can call gratefulness. He’s won whatever negotiation this was, if you can even call it that.

“Fine. Send her. And make it count.”

 _“This hole is deeper by the hour_  
_My hands are bleeding I spin around, you're nowhere_  
_I'll throw away my ugly plans_  
_They're too tired to push me anywhere but down_  
  
_So who am I to fool now if you're gone, you're gone_  
_If I am found below the ground_  
_I'm searching, desperate”_

-          First Floor People – Barcelona


	2. The Mockingjay: Home - Katniss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss meets with President Coin to discuss the future of the Mockingjay and Panem.

They let me leave the hospital the next morning. I have to report back in a few days so they can check my head injury, but they let me leave. I’m glad. I can’t lie in this bed anymore. I can’t just sit and wait for news.

I’m given the gray uniform typical of the citizens of Thirteen and then I walk out. Peeta leads me to our small unit where we are going to live. It’s an open floor plan with a table and a bed and bathroom. It’s basic, a mostly single room with places to sit and sleep. It’s not much, it’s not what I’ve grown accustomed to living in, but it’s nice. It almost reminds me of when I used to live in the Seam, when I was concerned with survival and feeding my family, not about putting on a show, not about a nation watching me.

And Peeta’s here. It makes it easier to adjust. But Ivy’s not here. Bas isn’t here. And they should be. Once again I feel the weight of my failures in the spaces of their absence. In the nothingness where they should be standing I’m surrounded by silence, their silence. It’s my fault that silence is here.

Thinking of Bas, even just the name, makes my throat clench in a way that feels like I’m being strangled. But I can’t help but think of him and how I will never get a chance to hug him or tell him I love him. And when my thoughts turn to Ivy and all the uncertainties for her future, I forget to breathe again.

I run my hands over the blanket on the bed. It’s stiff and scratchy. The feel of it reminds me of Ivy and it makes my heart ache all over again for my missing children. I remember putting her to sleep when she was small and I was the only one home. That seems to be a common theme. The moments when I was there for her were the moments when I was the only one who could be. When there was no one else there, no one better, just me.

Peeta had to be in the bakery early which meant I wouldn’t go hunting that morning but I woke up with him just the same. Bas hadn’t been born yet. The same choking feeling comes with the thought of him and I try to swallow, to stop the memory of either one of my children surfacing.

Still, despite my efforts, the memory comes back. I had been in the living room, sitting on the couch and wondering when would be a good time to wake her up and bring her to the bakery or if it was time for me to start bringing her out to the woods. She had just turned two.

It seemed like those were the only thoughts those years. When could I give her back to Peeta, who loved her so much more than I did, and when could I teach her to be safe, that was it. And as I sat there, wondering if she was ready, I heard her cry. And it took me less than a second to react. I was up the stairs and in her room in a heartbeat, where I found her sitting up in her bed, pointing, tears streaming down her face.

And I forgot then that I wasn’t supposed to do this, that I wasn’t the one to comfort her. I forgot like I so often did, that I wasn’t a normal mother. I was a Victor. I was on camera. I had a role to play and they would take her. They would give her a role too. And I couldn’t be what I was supposed to be.

But I couldn’t be my mother either. I couldn’t shut her out completely. I never had it in me to do that.

I sat beside her, the blankets soft and bright yellow just like the sun. And they smelled like her. And even now that seems so much more vivid in my mind than the rest of the room. Toys were on the ground, some Gale had made, some I had made. Peeta had painted the walls with bright flowers and a soft meadow, my meadow. It changed over the years as she grew, but it was that room that I always remembered the most.

She was too small for her bed. I remember that too.

“What happened, little girl?” My voice was soft and kind, all the things it was supposed to be. And even when I knew I was supposed to have a wall around me, to protect the both of us, her tears broke through.

She didn’t say anything, but I knew.

“Scary dreams?”

She nodded and reached for me and I did the only thing I could do. I let her down. How can I fix her nightmares when I can’t fix my own? She reached for me and I didn’t reach back. She asked for me and I pulled away.

“It’s just a dream. Go back to sleep,” I had said and she lied down but the tears were still there. And I couldn’t let that go, I couldn’t shut that out.

And in the quiet of our home I did what I used to do for Prim. I sang for her. And the tears stopped and she fell back asleep.

My hand shakes as it touches the starched pale threads of the blanket on my new bed and I wonder if Ivy even has a bed to sleep in or if they even let her sleep. Does she dream in the Capitol? Does she cry? What are they doing to her?

“How are you feeling?” Peeta asks after the long silence. I look to him and in my reminiscing I almost forgot he was here. His eyes. Ivy has his eyes. Bas looked so much more like him than he did me. My lungs feel like they’re about to collapse and my whole body feels like pins are being pushed into every nerve. I remind myself to breathe. I can’t help her if I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything if I don’t hold it together. I can’t lose her too.

Though I don’t know if I will be able to hold it together any longer.

I shake my head, “I don’t know.”

He nods and my eyes fall onto the bruises on his knuckles. And I know he’s coping with the losses too. We have both suffered. It’s not just me who misses our children.

“How are you?”

He sighs, “I’m tired.”

I nod. His mouth parts slightly as if he’s about to say more, but he closes it and sits on the small couch. We fall back into a long silence again and I think of all the things to say to bring him back, to make him feel better, but I have nothing.

And I wonder if I should ask, but I don’t.

I remember seeing Bas’ body in that cold room in the Capitol. I remember how much younger he had looked and that sting radiates through my chest. I haven’t told anyone about that and Johanna hasn’t mentioned it I’m sure, though I haven’t seen her since I woke up in the hospital. I haven’t told Peeta that I was able to say goodbye. And I think maybe I should tell him, I should let him know that one of us was there to do it, but I don’t know how to. How do I make it better? I can’t.

“Maybe you should sleep,” I say instead. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile but falls almost immediately.

“I will.”

“Eventually,” I finish for him.

He nods, “Eventually. You should probably get changed. I think it’s too early for lunch but it’s better than the hospital clothes.”

“You don’t like the hospital clothes?” I ask.

“Only if you do,” he returns, but even though the tone is lighter the smile never returns.

I nod and pick up the gray uniform to change. We fall into silence again as I do so. For a moment I think he may have fallen asleep but he shifts in his seat, eyes fixated on the wall. He’s lost in some thought, some worry. And I know it’s about Ivy or Bas. I know it’s the fear of the city that has her hostage and the loss of our son. I try to think of something to say but before I get the words out there’s a knock on the door.

I finish buttoning up the top of the uniform before Peeta opens the door.

“Peeta,” Gale’s voice says from outside the doorway. Peeta looks to me and I nod. He steps aside and lets Gale in.

“Katniss,” Gale greets but I say nothing. He clears his throat, “President Coin wants to meet with you.”

“Is there any news?” I ask, my voice rising with worry. Did the Capitol kill her too? Did they take her away?

“She didn’t tell me. I’m just here to escort you.” He stands upright, at attention, all business. Soldier Hawthorne.

I start to walk towards the door with Peeta beside me but Gale shakes his head.

“She just wants to see you, Katniss.”

“If it’s about Ivy…” I can feel my voice straining not to yell, not to scream or fight.

“You can relay the message,” Gale finishes.

“It’s okay. I’ll be right here when you’re done.” Peeta gives me a reassuring smile but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His hands clench involuntarily and I take one in mine, squeezing to bring him back. His eyes land on mine and I can see the pain behind them as clearly as I can feel my own. The light is gone from behind them and I feel like I’m losing him too.

“I’ll be right here,” Peeta repeats and I lean in to kiss him. It’s light, chaste, something to remind him I’m there.

“I’ll be back.”

I follow Gale to President Coin, down hallways and corridors, past the citizens of Thirteen all going about their scheduled day. And I’m reminded how little choice I have in this. How, in the moment I decided to put those berries into mine and Peeta’s hands, it was the last choice I made as Katniss Everdeen and the first that lead me here as Katniss Mellark.

“I’m sorry about Ivy,” Gale tries.

When I don’t answer he continues, “I’m sorry about a lot of things.”

I shake my head, “Apologizing doesn’t change anything.”

“How long are you going to punish me?”

“How long have you been dead?”

“Katniss,” he stops and I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to see the person who taught me how to feed my family, who was the closest thing I could have to a best friend, who I lost so long ago. The same friend who disappeared, who left everyone, who lied. I can’t be near another liar.

But I face him anyway. And there’s a deep regret to the way he hangs his head.

“I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t sit and just go on when everything…you would have done the same thing if you could have.”

“I wouldn’t have left my family behind. They mourned you, Gale, they were broken.”

“I waited,” he says, “I waited until they could handle themselves.”

He shakes his head, “If you could go back, if you knew then what you know now, would you have fought? Would you have run with Ivy and Bas? Or left them if it meant none of this would have happened to them?”

“You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to accuse me…I did what I thought was best at the time. If you knew what it was like…how scared…I was just trying to keep them safe.”

“That’s what I was doing. They didn’t need me anymore. I couldn’t stay.”

I suck in a breath. His reasons aren’t the same, they’re not the same. I wouldn’t leave people behind. You can’t protect them if you abandon them. It’s not the same. I’m not the same. I did the right thing. Right?

My thoughts turn to Madge and the note she left when he disappeared. Did she find Thirteen? Or did Gale abandon her to the wilderness, never to think about her again? I’m almost afraid to know the answer.

And I wonder if I ever knew him well enough at all. He always spoke about stopping the Games, he always wanted more than what we were given. Maybe this was always going to happen and I didn’t want to see it.

I don’t have time to ask about Madge or any of it because the next thing Gale says is, “President Coin is expecting us. I can’t let you be late.”

And then we’re moving again and I don’t speak to Gale the rest of the way.

I feel like I’m walking into the Reaping again as I enter the darker room with a large table. Beetee sits by the edge of the table in a wheelchair on one side. My eyes fall from the chair to his face.

“There she is,” Plutarch Heavensbee’s voice breaks through the room. He follows a woman I can only assume is President Coin. She has deep set wrinkles though she still has a youthful appearance and a calm, serious look about her.

“Katniss Mellark, this is President Alma Coin. President Coin, may I present to you, the girl on fire,” Plutarch announces. President Coin reaches her hand for mine and I shake it.

“It’s an honor to meet you. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling but just know that you’re welcome here in Thirteen. We’ve known loss here too.”

I’m too overwhelmed to speak so I just take a seat across from Plutarch and President Coin.

“Thank you, Soldier Hawthorne.” Coin gives Gale a curt nod which he returns as he steps outside the room. Her eyes turn to me.

“Are you aware of what’s been happening since the Games?” She asks.

I shake my head.

“When you fired your arrow, when you gave your speech and you went to rescue your daughter, Panem listened. Seven Districts are rioting and striking. Including Twelve.”

And I remember Snow had mentioned something about Twelve striking, but now more are following. I nod.

“President Snow spoke to me about it. Before…everything.”

“President Snow meets with you?”

I nod again, a shallow nod this time, “He wants to make sure we’re on the same page.”

President Coin sits back, “I see,” and for her part there’s at least some sense of sympathy to her. And I wonder if they understand how much control Snow likes to have over his Victors. I wonder if they’re starting to realize. If, like me, for the longest time, all they had were rumors. She clears her throat, sitting forward again.

“We have to keep this energy going, we have to keep them fighting. And we believe if we don’t, if we let it fall apart again, we could be waiting another twenty five or a hundred years for something like this to happen again. Thirteen is ready, Katniss. And we need you.”

“What about Ivy? Is she alive? What are they doing to her?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t. I can’t contact my allies inside the Capitol,” Plutarch says, his voice almost heavy with regret. And I don’t know if I should believe his tone, I don’t know if he truly does care. He was in charge of her Games after all. He created that arena. The same arena my son died in.

“The Capitol has always suppressed communication between the districts,” Beetee begins, “but I know their system. I’ve even done improvements for them over the years. I left myself a back door and I can break through. I just need to send the right message to the districts.”

“That’s where you come in,” Plutarch says. “We need to show them that the Mockingjay is back. That she’s alive and she’s fighting, she’s standing up to the Capitol.” And even though he doesn’t say it I can imagine a “finally” at the end of his sentence.

Plutarch scribbles something in a notebook. “We’re going to film a series of propaganda, propos, if you will, and we’re going to broadcast them to the districts. We need to get Panem to believe in the Mockingjay again and to believe in the cause again. Because if even one district doesn’t fight, we won’t win this war. They need to see that you’re fighting for them and for their children. For your children. For a better Panem.”

My stomach clenches at the thought. “I only have one child now. And you can’t even tell me if she’s alive. So who am I fighting for?”

“Go to Twelve,” Coin says.

“What?”

“Go to Twelve. Go with Peeta, go with whoever you need to. You need to see who’s out there fighting and who you need to help keep alive. It’s not just about your family or your children, and believe me I am sorry for you loss and for what you are going through, but the Capitol won’t stop with your daughter. They won’t stop with the death of your son. How many more are going to die in those Games or for them to stay in power? Go to your home and see them. They believe in you. And the other districts they might be able to believe in you again too, God knows I want to. When you get back, you let me know who you’re fighting for.” Coin stands, leaving the room in silence.

“Ivy,” I say to myself more than anyone else left in the room.

When I get back to Peeta, I tell him everything. The propos, the Mockingjay, and going to Twelve, he hears it all.

“Let’s go,” he says after I finish.

“You think we should?”

“I think we should see what’s happening. Look, Katniss I don’t think a war is the answer, but…the Capitol has her. And I think if we want her back, until we get her back, we have to do what it takes.”

I nod. “So we’re going back to Twelve.” And then I think of Prim and how she doesn’t need me now, but I don’t want her in a war zone. And Rory, he needs to know that Gale is alive. And Prim will have had the baby by now. They should come back to Thirteen. My mother too, she should come and Peeta’s family.

“Your sister,” Peeta says, just as I’m thinking it. “Our families, maybe, they should…”

“They shouldn’t stay there.”

His hand finds my cheek, his thumb circling the skin there. It’s a soft touch despite the calloused and rough hands from years of working in the bakery. I close my eyes and lean into him. His forehead lands on mine and we breathe each other in.

“You can do this,” he says, “And we will get her back.”

He sounds so sure, so damn certain, that I can’t help but believe. He should be the one making the speeches. He should be rallying the districts, not me. They need him so much more than they need me.

We leave our living unit and find Gale waiting for us.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He asks.

I walk past him without a response. He speeds up to walk beside me but I stay silent even as we take an elevator towards the hangar where the hovercrafts are kept. Gale says as much, though I start to focus on the drone of the elevator more than I do his voice.

“That’s a lot of bombs,” Peeta says as we walk past shell after shell towards the hovercraft starting up.

“We’re at war. Trust me, the Capitol has more.” Gale walks a little faster.

We meet a taller man, lean, and wearing the same colors of a soldier but Gale salutes him. “Colonel Boggs.”

Boggs salutes back, “Soldier Hawthorne.” He turns his attention towards me and Peeta, “I’ll be taking you to Twelve. This way.”

The back of the hovercraft opens and we head inside. I turn back to look at Gale as he takes a large step away from the hovercraft.

I let out a breath. Of course he wouldn’t go back to Twelve. He wouldn’t see his family. It’s been eleven years, why would he go back now? I continue inside the hovercraft and don’t spare another glance back. He could disappear from here and I don’t think I would grieve. I’ve done enough of it, especially for him.

When Peeta and I board the hovercraft there are several new faces waiting for us. We take our seats across from a woman, half her hair shaved off and tattoos lining the hairless skin. Her blonde locks have streaks of grey and though there are wrinkles around her eyes, she definitely doesn’t look her age. She can’t be much older than Johanna but she has an air of authority about her.

“Katniss, Peeta, it’s nice to meet you,” she says, “I’m Cressida.” She points to two men with what looks like large shells beside them, “That’s Castor and Pollux.”

Beside her sits a smaller man with piercings all over his face, he carries the same authority she does, though in her presence it seems to shrink back.

“And this is Messalla, former assistant, great director on his own, assistant again,” she beams with a smile.

Messalla holds out his hand and shakes both Peeta’s and mine, “It’s an honor to meet you both.”

Castor and Pollux exchange hand signals and both smile to me. “He’s an avox,” Cressida tells us, indicating Pollux. I nod and give him a smile, which he returns.

“No offense, but why are you here?” Peeta asks, “It seems like you were probably set in the Capitol.”

“We left. For this. For you. Gotta say, it feels good to finally say that.” Cressida sits back in her seat as the hovercraft’s engine starts.

I shut my eyes as we start to take off. Why would they leave for me? Why would anyone believe in me?

Cressida starts to talk about speeches to Peeta while Messalla digs out some papers.

“We’re not here to make any speeches,” Peeta starts but the words fade and my attention is gone from the proceedings before me. My eyes travel around the hovercraft. It’s the same as the others, supplies inside, the same metal casing. But it’s not the same. There’s no arena waiting when I get off this hovercraft.

I catch sight of a pair of legs trying their best to go unnoticed behind a large crate that’s been strapped down in the corner. A hand pulls the legs closer, trying to stay as still as possible. I’m standing and walking towards them before any one says a word to me about it.

“Katniss?” Peeta asks and I turn around, holding a finger to my lips.

I reach the crate and peer over it to find Beck hiding there, back pressed to the crate, legs pulled up to his chest. I sigh and pull him up by the shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” I ask and Beck groans, rubbing his side.

“Careful, you know I was stabbed.”

“Which is why you should still be in the hospital,” Peeta answers, abandoning the papers and at my side shortly after, “Your mother’s probably tearing apart Thirteen looking for you right now.”

Beck looks down, guilt flashing across his features, before he keeps his expression stoic.

“How did you get here?” Peeta asks.

Beck shrugs, avoiding looking at me or Peeta or at anyone really. Peeta’s gaze is hard and stable as he watches the boy.

“Beck,” Peeta orders and Beck looks up.

“I took a walk. The hospital, I couldn’t just stay there. I heard Coin. Followed you,” he says, his voice dropping off at the last word.

“Why?” I ask. And I can’t fault him for wanting to get out of the hospital. I couldn’t stand being in there any longer than I had to be.

“I don’t know…I just…I guess I just wanted to see it. Twelve.” There’s a deep pain that he’s trying his best to hide and I don’t understand why he would want to see it, there’s nothing there for him. Nothing at all.

But Peeta seems to understand a lot more than I do because he nods and says, “I see.” And it’s tentative, tinged with a hint of worry, but the understanding overpowers it.

“It’s not safe, you know that.” And Peeta’s voice is softer now as he guides Beck to one of the seats beside Messalla, across from Pollux. Beck sits without an argument.

“I know, but…”

“You’re staying in here when we land,” Peeta states and Beck slumps back, the argument over.

And I feel like I missed something as I go back to my seat.

“Beck Cresta,” Cressida greets him, “You and I are going to need to have a discussion when we get back to Thirteen. I have an idea for you.”

We fly in silence for a few moments when the hovercraft rocks and Boggs runs to the front. My heart pounds in my chest as the hovercraft shakes again and an alarm begins to sound. Boggs returns.

“We’re turning around. Hang on!”

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“An attack.”

Peeta and I push past Boggs to the front where we can see. We have to see. I have to know what’s happening. Prim is down there. Peeta’s family is down there.

And when we see it I feel like I’m about to fall to the ground.

It’s on fire. All of it. Burning.

The Capitol. They destroyed it. Twelve is gone.

_“Welcome to your life_   
_There’s no turning back_   
_Even while we sleep_   
_We will find you”_

-          Everybody Wants to Rule the World (Cover) – Lorde


	3. The Mockingjay: World on Fire - Peeta, Beck, and Katniss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peeta tries to save his family, Beck learns more about himself, and Katniss makes a statement.

Peeta –

The hovercraft shifts to turn around, nearly knocking me over in the process. The pilot is trying to get us away from the destruction, but we can’t leave. We can’t turn around. We have to help the people below. They need us. They need Thirteen. They need to be saved. They can’t die like this.

I can see the fire below, burning bright and hot along the Seam. The fire catches the dust from the coal and there’s an explosion across one of the rooftops. I hear Katniss let out a shaky breath as the fire burns brighter.

How many bombs did they drop? How many hovercrafts came to destroy the place? It could have only been one. Twelve really wouldn’t need more than that. A well-placed match could have done the job just as easily as a bomb. They had to know that. They had to only send one. Or maybe they sent more to really make sure that not only was the message received but that there would be no Twelve left standing. Judging by the smoke and flames it looks like they sent an army to annihilate our home.

My home. My family’s home.

We pass over the merchant district where it burns just as hot as the Seam. There are people running, not nearly as many as I’m used to seeing, but people we can help just the same.

“You have to land,” I tell the pilot.

“It’s too risky,” Plutarch answers for the pilot, “We’re going back to Thirteen.”

“We have to help them,” Katniss shouts. If her voice wasn’t shaking I would think she was giving a speech.

“We can’t let those people die,” I return. And I think of Prim, of how devastated Katniss would be to lose her sister on top of all the rest we’ve both lost. And I think of my brothers, of Rye in particular, the one brother who was the only one who seemed to care about me. My father cared too, in his own way but not like Rye.

I spent years trying not to be either one of my parents. I made sure to show my children I cared so they would always know how much they meant to me. And even when I was angry, I never wanted to raise my voice. I never wanted them to see that anger that caused me fear and pain from my mother’s hand.

I wanted to be better for them and I lost them both. I think I was too weak to save them, to protect them, to do what they needed.

And now their home is burning. Our home is burning and collapsing and every memory is disappearing with it. Everything I have left of them is falling to ash and dust.

I can’t let it happen.

Something crosses Plutarch’s face, something that reeks of calculation disguised as sympathy. He softens his look as his eyes pass from Katniss to me. I can hear Cressida saying something to Messalla but I can’t make out the words.

Plutarch turns to look behind me to her and he gives a curt nod. Whatever her response is to that it solidifies whatever thought he has.

“Land,” he orders and I don’t focus too much on Plutarch anymore because we’re descending into the pit of Hell.

“What’s happening?” Beck asks, hand to his side as the hovercraft shifts again. He keeps himself upright and in the chaos I nearly forgot he was here. He can’t leave the craft. He can’t go out there. Finnick would kill me. No, Annie would kill me. No, they both would. They’d take turns.

“Stay in here when we land,” I tell him and my voice carries that same instruction I had when disciplining Bas and Ivy. That leveled calm that I tried to maintain so I would never shout. So I would never be my mother. But Beck isn’t my son and this isn’t like before. And I let myself get angry so he understands.

“But--”

“No! You’re injured, you can’t help.”

He looks helpless, he looks sad and scared. I remember seeing him on the screen and I’m reminded how well he had hidden it. How well he kept that fear locked away so he could survive and win.

“Just, stay here and wait.”

I remember how he helped Ivy and Bas. I remember how he tried to save my son. How he did save my daughter. And he was the last person they had in there besides each other. He was the last one who saw them as they were. The only one who made it out who hadn’t tried to kill them.

Maybe it would be easier to blame him if he had tried to kill them. Maybe I could hate him then, have someone to focus on instead of some President far off in his guarded castle within his city that’s surely tearing my daughter’s soul apart as it is mine.

But it’s not fair to be angry with Beck. It’s not fair to think that he didn’t get there in time or that he should have been strong enough to keep them both alive and bring them home. I can’t blame him. I can’t blame Katniss either. It’s not her fault we were both trying to do what we thought was best and a war isn’t what’s best. Though now I’m not sure what the right way is. I can’t sit and claim it’s someone else’s fault besides the Capitol and President Snow’s. Besides the other tribute who killed my son.

There’s a difference between the arena changing someone and natural born cruelty in a person and I’ve seen my fair share of cruelty to know the perpetrators of it. And Bas’ killer is no different.

Even with all those others to place fault in, I still blame myself. And I will blame myself if another suffers the same fate, if I have to witness someone else I know lose their child.

Beck needs to stay behind.

“I can’t just wait here,” he tries.

“Yes, you can. And you will,” I order.

I’m vaguely aware of Katniss’ hand brushing over mine as the hovercraft lands with a jolt and shake. The doors open and I take a moment to look at her.

When I was younger I imagined what it would be like to hold her hand. I imagined all the things that could happen but I thought never would. And I remember throwing bread into the fire so it would burn, so my mother would make me throw it out. And I remember taking that bread and throwing it to Katniss because I was too afraid to walk it over myself.

I never said anything about it until she brought it up in the cave during our Games. Back then I was honest because I knew I was going to die and I wanted her to know before I did. I knew I would never get the chance to hold her hand.

But I did get the chance for that and more. I got a life with her. And it didn’t turn out like I imagined at all. And sometimes I wonder what would have happened had I died in the Games, or if we had never gotten reaped, would I have gotten the chance then?

It’s been years and I still have that question. I love her. I know that. And I know she loves me too. She might have trouble saying it but I know she does. I know her better than anyone else in the world, but still I have the question.

I want to kiss her goodbye, just in case, but I don’t. And I’m not sure why I don’t. But she doesn’t either. And a few seconds later with few words passed between us we are both running off to find others we can help. Katniss to find her family and me to find mine, though the family I want to find is far away from here lost to death and captivity while the other half of it is running away.

We landed in the meadow, the same meadow Katniss showed me. I never used to go past the fence, I was too afraid or I had never felt the need to, not like her. Once she took me out here I never wanted to stay behind the fence again. I didn’t go out that often. The few times I went with her I brought Bas and Ivy when they had been born. And it was the small moments where I felt like I deserved this life, where the Capitol didn’t matter, my mother didn’t matter, and we were just a family enjoying the day.

But they were far and few between as the years went on. And now, the meadow is the last thing to be touched by the fire. It’ll be gone soon, just like everything else.

It’s a blur of blistering heat and screaming as I make my way towards the bakery. It was as much mine as it was the rest of my family’s. I don’t have a lot of good memories, but there are the few, and those are the ones that matter most.

I see parents cradling children and I can’t breathe. I can’t look. I know the feeling of it, how it tears your soul apart and rips you up until you don’t feel anything but the pain. And that pain never ends, it just turns into an ache you can’t describe while new pieces fall apart every day.

The thick fog of smoke chokes my lungs and makes my eyes tear. Though I’m not sure if that’s the smoke or the pain in my chest at the thought of my home burning down, of the losses I’ve suffered and the fact that I still have to keep myself standing.

I can’t fall apart again. Not until it’s safe.

Houses fall apart in the flames and the screaming never ends. It’s all red and burning and I know I’ll have nightmares of this for years to come. I don’t think Thirteen has many resources for painting. There will be no calming these images.

I feel a crunch as I step over a body and there are hundreds of them burning and dead. I feel the bile rise in my throat as the smell reaches me. I keep it down. I have to get to the bakery.

A woman runs past me, blood pouring down her face from her head. And then I come across Rory pulling anyone he can carry, his face covered in ash, yelling for everyone to keep moving.

“Rory,” I call. He looks up at me, a mixture of shock and fear across his face.

“How?” He asks as a crowd stays in front of him.

“We have a way to get these people to safety.” There’s no time for explanations to get in the way, there’s no time for me to mention Gale. We have to get these people out of here. They need to be safe.

“The woods, they have to go to the woods.” His voice is small and quiet and he shakes his head, “Vick, Vick was headed towards…I don’t know where Posy is. Where are we supposed to go?”

I place a hand on his shoulder, “Thirteen.” And there’s a promise in the way I say it, “Get them to the woods.”

He nods, forcing himself to keep going. The small crowd passes as Rory forces them towards the woods. A building collapses beside us and I shout to him behind me.

“Rory! My family?”

Rory shakes his head, “I don’t know.”

And then I’m running again. I remember playing with my brothers behind the bakery when it had been a good day and my mother hadn’t raised her hand. I remember racing to school. I remember standing at the reaping before I was eligible. I had been so worried that they would be taken from me and even then I knew there was nothing to be done about it.

When my day came they told me not to worry. They were wrong. And not one of them thought I was coming home, not even my mother. And I had believed that my children would, that they could beat the odds, both of them. I had believed there was a chance to save them. I was wrong.

I reach the bakery and the pen where the animals are still alive. The pigs screech and wail and I know the only way to save them is to open the gate, so that’s what I do. We don’t need them anymore anyway. No one will here in Twelve.

The bakery is a different story. The roof has collapsed, caving in on what once was my family’s home and business. I can hear shouting from inside. The windows are broken, the fire just starting to make its way onto the building itself. I don’t have much time.

I climb inside through the open window and, amidst the shattered pieces of where I grew up, I find only one person alive. Rye.

“Peeta?” He calls through the smoke from underneath the debris that’s crushing his legs. He won’t walk, not with that much weight. There’s no saving him.

But still I try.

I’m shorter than my brothers but I was always stronger. I got the worst of it from my mother so I had to be. I had to lift more flour, I had to work faster and harder, I had to be better. I had to be perfect so she wouldn’t find a reason. But it didn’t matter. She still did.

Her body lies underneath one of the ovens and I only feel numb. I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to feel, but I don’t think this is it. I can’t look at the rest. I have to focus on Rye.

I push and pull and do everything I can to get the weight off of him but it won’t move.

“Peeta,” he breathes out, “Stop.”

“You can make it,” I say and my voice chokes as the smoke gets worse inside. I can feel the warmth from the spreading fire and there’s sweat running down my face onto my brother.

“You have to,” I crack. He shakes his head and his breath is small and short and there’s no saving him.

“I can’t lose anymore,” I cry and the tears hurt against the heat of the fire. “Ivy’s gone. And Bas. And they just keep taking and I can’t keep going.”

He grabs my hand, squeezing it. “You always got stuck with the clean-up, didn’t you?” He smirks. “I’ll close up here. You go home.”

I shake my head.

“Your family needs you to.” He pushes me back and suffers the full weight of the wreckage on top of him. He gives me a look, telling me to go. And I hear a creak as the rest of the walls threaten to tumble down with the fire.

“When it’s over, make this place better,” Rye says, his words mixed with heavy breaths. I climb out the same window I entered through as the rest of the building falls apart, taking my mother and the rest of my old life with it. Memories of bruises and screaming burned away the same as the memories of laughter with my brothers and teaching my children how to bake.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel watching the place burn, knowing there was no way to save it, and thinking a part of me didn’t want to. There’s another piece of me that knew what I was going to find, but I still needed to see it. I still held out hope that maybe some good would survive, but it didn’t.

I should find Katniss.

Beck –

“Get the cameras,” Cressida tells her crew and they move in a rush, following Katniss and Peeta out of the hovercraft. I stand by the door, watching them part ways, as Cressida and her crew stay on Katniss. She points and the cameras are fixed on the destruction and the Mockingjay. The light in the darkness, the guidance for the revolution, the last hope we have for freedom, whatever they want to title it, they’re getting all the footage they need. Whether or not Katniss notices is a different story and she’s too far gone out of my eye sight for me to really know.

I shouldn’t be in here waiting as Ivy’s home burns. If it was my home, I couldn’t stay behind. All I had wanted to do was see it, for what reason I’m still not sure, but I just wanted to know what living in Twelve was like for her, what her home was like.

Maybe that’s naïve, maybe it’s just down right stupid. It was something I wanted, some way I could still…I don’t know. I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know what I wanted to feel or what I thought I wanted to see, _her_ standing there?

It doesn’t matter anymore. Now it’s on fire and it’s all going to Hell.

I have always had the best timing.

Peeta told me to wait. My parents would want me to wait. But I keep hearing screams and I can smell it all. The fire, the dead, all mixed into some kind of grotesque smoky inhalant that makes my eyes water and bile rise up my throat.

My mother wouldn’t want me to go in there, but she wouldn’t want me to stand by and let people I could help die. She would want me to be safe. She wouldn’t want me to be cruel. My father would tell me it’s not cowardly to stay behind when I’m not strong enough to keep going. And he would also tell me that being smart is better than being a hero, but sometimes it’s better to be the hero than it is to be smart.

All those lessons were preparation for the Games not watching a district burn. Be a hero for the audience so they like you. Be smart so they know you can win. Be kind so they don’t turn against you, so the Capitol will always love you, but don’t be too kind so they still believe you can do what needs to be done.

And after all the masks, all the roles I’ve learned to play and the image I’ve created, right now, when it matters more than anything else, I don’t know who I am.

Who does Ivy think I am? Who do my parents think they’ve raised?

Who do I want to be?

I’m still not sure. But I know I don’t want to be someone who stays behind.

I make sure Plutarch isn’t watching. He’s more interested in a small monitor that shows the camera on Katniss and everything that’s being shot. I don’t think he cares what I do, nor do I think he’d even try to stop me from going out there.

I start running, ignoring the growing sharp pain in my side from my still healing wound. It can wait, the people who are dying can’t.

I come to a fence that’s half fallen and I climb over the wire. We have fences in Four, built of mesh wiring and pastel painted posts. There’s electric current that runs through the fences built on land but no fences in the water, though there are guard posts that watch the sea to make sure we don’t try to sail away.

Where would we go anyway? As if there’s somewhere we could hide that the Capitol couldn’t find us.

I think of Thirteen. How long is that going to last? I suppose they’ve been there since the Games started, but there has to be a reason the Capitol hasn’t gone in and cleaned them out. There must be something keeping them safe and I don’t think it’s just living underground.

I pass through a running crowd as they flee the danger. Some of them are carrying younger children; others are barely holding themselves up. For a second I think one of the children look at me and I hear my name, but I must be imagining that. Why would they care who I am? Why would they care that I’m here?

I don’t even know who Beck Cresta is anymore so why should they?

“Help,” a woman shouts from underneath rubble. The fire is choking, smoke burying its way so deep into my skin I don’t think I’ll ever wash away the smell. She keeps shouting and I follow her voice through the smoke to her.

Her arm is pinned underneath a fallen roof of a small home, some of it’s pieces still burning. She’s crying. Her short hair singed and her skin covered in dirt and soot.

The woman tries, desperately, to lift the roof off of herself with her free arm. I can feel my stitches scratching at my skin, almost daring me to try. And I know I shouldn’t. I should find more people. I should be smart.

But the fire keeps burning and this woman will die and she shouldn’t be here right now. Ivy would try to save her wouldn’t she?

I realize now more than I ever did that I don’t really know Ivy that well. And as I look around Twelve, her home that once was, I try to picture how it used to be and how she would have been here.

I see the image she put forth in front of the camera and the mask she hid behind. I see the pieces of the real her that emerged during the Games. And as I look around me, as I think of her, I don’t know what she would do. I can’t make the pieces fit to form the whole person because I don’t know the whole person with something to hide behind.

But, God, I want to.

And maybe that’s all that matters. The small things I do know, the certainty I have in my heart when I imagine her voice. The hope I feel when I picture her standing in front of me. But there is no one there and I can’t feel hope in a place like this.

But the woman before me, the woman who will die without my help, she needs to feel that hope, she needs to get out of here. And I believe Ivy would help her. She would want me to help her as much as I could.

I run to the woman and I try to lift the roof with all the strength I can manage. It doesn’t budge.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” I try to reassure her. She nods, her voice an inaudible mix of a cry and resilience. I shove my weight against the roof again, lifting and pushing myself as hard as I can to save her.

I can feel the wound at my side tear, the skin ripping with the stitches and blood begins to soak my shirt. It hurts but I hear the wood shift and I can feel it start to move. But then there’s a crack and snap and the roof falls back down and there’s no way to lift it again no matter how hard I try.

I can barely breathe. I start shouting for anyone and everyone to help. I can’t do this alone.

“Posy,” a man calls. He’s tall and built. His hair is the same color as the woman’s, the eyes the same too. They have to be related.

“Vick,” she returns and the man, Vick, is beside her in an instant. There’s dust in his hair, scrapes over his arms and wrist. He looks at me and then sees the blood on my shirt.

“You should…”

“I can help.”

He nods before pulling two others with him and then he shouts, “Now,” and we all lift it together. The wood creaks again as the roof rises. Vick takes the most weight as I lean down and drag Posy out.

There’s a mangled mess where her arm used to be, blood and bone and muscle all mixing into one lump of flesh. Vick and the others drop the roof once she’s clear of it. The second it falls it collapses into broken pieces of wood as fire overtakes it.

Vick removes his belt and ties it at Posy’s shoulder, stopping her from bleeding out, and then he helps her back onto her feet.

“Get her out,” Vick says as more screaming echoes and a crowd rushes through, running much faster than they did before.

He pushes us and I help Posy run. I’m not sure why we’re all running or what new threat could be coming after us, but then I see _them_. White uniforms, pristine against the embers and ash, marching in a line, followed by the sound of the gun shots. Peacekeepers. Snow must have sent them to clean the district out, make sure the elimination stuck.

I think I might have a chance to outrun them, even as more blood seeps down my shirt and drips down my leg. These clothes are ruined. Good thing Thirteen is rife with jumpsuits. That is, if I make it back to Thirteen. I don’t think I’m going to outrun them. I don’t think I’m going to get to escape the Capitol this time.

But I have to try. I have to. I have to make it back home. My parents would never forgive me if I didn’t.

The guns keep firing. We keep running even after I no longer hear Vick shouting behind us. I don’t know what happens to him. I don’t know if anyone else is still going, but I am. And Posy is too. I can hear bodies fall. I can hear people crying and shouting, “Why?” But there’s no answer, just more bullets tearing through them.

We run through the town square, past the justice building as it finally collapses, and all the while the assault continues. The Capitol making sure there are no survivors. The crowd thins as they try to hide only to be shot or crushed by falling debris.

We turn down a side road, Posy guiding me. I can see the fence. I can practically taste safety.

And then a Peacekeeper steps in front of us.

They raise their gun with no words or warnings. And why would they warn us when they’ve been ordered to kill? All they do is kill for their leader, kill for the President, no questions asked. I wonder if they’ve ever questioned.

I remember Cain. He came from Two. They train the Peacekeepers there, or so I’ve been told. He never questioned what he had to do. He just did it with pure cruelty. He wanted to win, so he would win at all cost.

No, I don’t think the Peacekeepers question it. I think they’re always ready to serve the Capitol.

We wait for death, we wait for the gun, and for a moment I think I should close my eyes. I’ll die in her home. I don’t know if it’s funny or sad. I wanted to see it and now I get to die in it.

The gun never goes off. The Peacekeeper never has a chance to fire. He’s crashed into, thrown against a wall as Peeta punches him until I hear a crack as the helmet breaks. And even then Peeta keeps punching until the Peacekeeper is slumped onto the ground, his gun forgotten.

“Is he dead?” Posy asks.

There’s a dark look that crosses over Peeta’s face and I wonder if he’s thinking about Cain. If, in this moment, he’s imagining the tribute who killed his son in that white uniform, and he’s making him pay for it. The dark look fades and Peeta holds a finger under the Peacekeeper’s nose and shakes his head. There’s a relief to his face as he realizes the soldier is still alive. He pulls the relief in, biting back something else as he stands, picking up the gun and facing me.

“You were supposed to stay in the hovercraft,” his voice is quiet but steady and it’s the scariest sound in the world to me.

“Posy,” a voice calls and she turns, tears in her eyes. There’s another man behind Peeta. He looks a lot like Vick. He’s smaller with longer hair, a thinner face and frame, but he has the same eyes and the same softness to his face as she does. She runs to him and hugs him tightly with her good arm.

“How?” She asks.

“I came back to see if there was anyone else I could...We need to get to the woods,” he tells her, his voice quiet, pointing towards the fence. “Where’s Vick?” He asks, glancing behind us, hopeful that his brother will emerge.

“He helped save me and then the Peacekeepers they…Rory, I think he fell behind…I don’t…he’s gone.” She starts to cry and Rory clenches his jaw.

He shakes his head, “We don’t have…The Capitol…There’s no time...We have to…”

She grabs his shoulder with her remaining hand and he stops trying to speak. “I can’t do this,” he says, his voice dropping.

“You can. Gale knew you could. He always knew. That’s why he was tougher on you than us. For this moment.” She pokes him in his stomach, “So don’t let him down.”

He takes a step back and picks his head up, rubbing the spot where she poked him. “We have to go.”

We make it to the hovercraft where more survivors are waiting. Some watch the hovercraft and Twelve, others help the wounded board the ship to safety. Small children are let on, the old who won’t be able to walk, but the ones who can they don’t try to force their way on, they wait.

“Everyone can’t fit, can they?” I ask. Peeta watches the proceeding, holding the gun towards the ground.

Rory interjects, his voice stronger than it was before, “No. But the ones who can walk. We will.”

“Thirteen, we’re…” Peeta tries.

“We’ll find it.” Rory looks around at the others. It’s a couple hundred people, substantial in the small area, but compared to the amount that were in the district it’s devastating.

He stands in the center of the crowd, some of which can’t even lift their heads to look at him, they’re too broken.

“I know you don’t want to hear this but we can’t stop. We have to keep walking. The Peacekeepers will be out here soon and if we want to get to Thirteen we have to start moving. So pick yourselves up and get ready to go.”

“Katniss?” Peeta asks Rory.

“I haven’t seen her.”

“She would have looked for Prim. They could have…”

More gunshots ring out, a whimper travels through the crowd and the hovercraft is boarded much faster.

“We need to leave soon,” Plutarch announces, looking out of place amongst the refugees.

“Not without Katniss,” Peeta responds, turning to look from the meadow back towards Twelve.

“Posy, you need to get on the hovercraft. Your arm, you can’t make the walk. It needs to be looked at.”

“Don’t talk to me like you’re making a speech. I agree with you, but watch the tone.”

He smiles to his sister and nudges her towards the hovercraft. She turns around and gives him another hug.

“Get there safe okay?”

He nods and she joins the wounded boarding the ship.

I grip my side, trying to stop it from bleeding. It’s not as bad as it was but it’s not good. It can still kill me if I don’t do something about it.

My parents are going to kill me for this. Well, they’ll hug me, be glad I’m alive, and then they’ll kill me.

I’m not someone who stays behind, they have to know that, or maybe they don’t know me any more than I know myself. What I do know is this; I’m going to have to make one Hell of an apology.

Katniss –

“Prim!”

It’s the only word I scream and shout in a fury as I race through Twelve towards hers and Rory’s home.

I’m vaguely aware of Cressida yelling, “Stay on her,” to her cameramen and I don’t have the ability to tell them to back off. I have to find my sister.

I volunteered for her at the beginning. I wanted to keep her safe. I was always meant to die in that arena, or if I had won, I was meant to win alone. I never intended for any of this to happen. And as the years went on, as I stayed alive, I only wanted to keep the ones I loved most alive with me. I never wanted a revolution. I never wanted this.

She wouldn’t stay in her home. She wouldn’t go there. She would look for my mother or she would be trying to help others. She would go to where the worst damage was.

I cough through smoke as I keep running, my breath hard and uneven as I continue to scream my sister’s name. My voice is drowned out by the sounds of those around me. They call for their loved ones just as strongly as I do while fire rages through our home, taking everything with it.

I stop to look around once I reach the Seam. The Hob is completely gone, the most damage done to a place that means just as much to me as the very woods that surround the district. It helped save my life and kept me alive the same as the woods, the same as Peeta throwing me that bread. And now it’s all gone. This must be where the first bombs fell, the thick, black smoke a dark fog with so many houses collapsed.

My eyes fall onto a half destroyed wall where I see the faded remnants of an image from what feels like years ago. The Peacekeepers tried to get rid of it, tried to burn and wash it away, but it couldn’t be destroyed.

Bas’ Mockingjay.

He had held so much anger, so much quiet rage and then it erupted in an action. He painted it. He wanted everyone to know, to remember. He believed in me more than any single person has, even more than Peeta, I can’t help but think. He wanted me to remember too.

The paint is chipped and singed, faded with time and destruction. But despite the fire it still stands, despite the Capitol, it’s still there, my reminder, everyone’s reminder. They can’t just do this to us. They can’t just burn us down and expect us to take it. They can’t just kill our children and think we’ll watch.

I turn to face the camera and stare right at Cressida, “I have something to say.”

“Go ahead, Katniss,” Cressida responds, pointing towards Pollux. I stare at the Mockingjay again and I remember the story of it, the Capitol creation that lived despite them, the very first defiance.

“Katniss, what do you want to say?” Cressida asks.

“My son painted that,” I say and I point to the faded symbol. I remember the Peacekeepers coming in, setting a different fire, keeping us in our place. I remember Ivy almost dying because of them. The firing squad she found herself witnessing. So much violence has surrounded their lives because of me, when all I wanted was to keep them safe, when all I needed was to protect the people I love the most.

“And the Peacekeepers, they came in and tore everything apart. And now it’s happening again. They just keep doing it and it needs to stop.” A camera crosses in front of my face but I don’t care, I don’t need to be speaking to the nation, I don’t need to keep a revolution going. I’m angry and all I want is for someone to pay for this. For taking my home, taking my children, possibly taking my sister, God knows where she is right now.

And I know exactly who needs to pay, exactly who needs to hear the message.

“President Snow,” I shout, “You can try to kill us. You can try to kill me, but I am still here.” I point to the Mockingjay, the very thing I tried to keep locked away for twenty five years, the idea that I rejected, my Mockingjay, “That is still here! I am the Mockingjay and I am still standing. You killed my son and you took my daughter hostage but the Mockingjay is still here, I’m still here. I’m still fighting for my children.”

I take a breath and I see a rose on an invitation meant for me, a warning. I hear his voice and I imagine him watching this. Ivy locked away somewhere for him to torment and use.

“And I want you to know that I’m coming for my daughter and President Snow, I’m going to be the one who kills you.”

And then I turn from the camera and I’m calling for Prim once again.

She finds me halfway from the Hob, carrying a crying baby swaddled in dirty blankets.

“Did you see Rory?” She asks and I shake my head.

“There was too much. I had to find you.”

“What about mom?”

I shake my head again, “We have to go, Prim.”

She looks around and I know she wants to help, but she can’t. I pull her with me as she grips the baby in her arms.

We are almost safe, almost past the justice building, when I start to hear the gunshots. We move faster, running towards safety, but there are people dying in Twelve. People I know, people I trade with, people who I’ve tried to keep fed when they couldn’t.

“Peeta,” I shout as I see him by the hovercraft. He holds a gun. I’ve never seen him with a gun. He sighs in relief but then his eyes turn back to the wounded being brought onto the hovercraft.

“You found her, that’s good,” he says and then he’s quiet again. I feel naked without a weapon, without my weapon. And I know where I kept it, where it’s hidden and I need it.

I’m silent as I head towards the woods. It’s not too far, it’s not out of reach, and I can’t be without it. It’s the last piece of home I’ll have for a while.

I find the bow where I left it, hidden in the tree stump, Ivy’s right next to it. I feel my breath hitch as I look at her bow and I decide to take it with me. It’s hers, she’ll need it back once she’s out of the Capitol, she’ll want it back.

I make it back to the hovercraft amidst the chaos as a terrified scream falls through the crowd. There are gun shots and I see two white uniforms crossing the barrier of the fence and heading towards everyone. All the while the cameras continue to roll and I know what to do.

I ready an arrow and I fire, hitting the first Peacekeeper, as Peeta fires into the other one. It takes seconds, and there are three more dead citizens of Twelve because of it, but the Peacekeepers are gone for now. More will come, more will always come.

“Prim,” Rory runs over and pulls her into his arms, kissing the baby’s head and taking a breath. And I realize I never asked the baby’s name. But every time I look at them, their family, I feel a sting in my chest where my loss is still fresh. I can’t look. I don’t want to ask. It’ll just remind me of what’s gone.

I lower the arrow as Rory and Prim share in their relief that the other is alive. That they’ve made it through bombings and Peacekeepers and everything else the Capitol has just thrown at them.

Cressida nods to Messalla, both proud of the footage they’ve gotten.

“Is there anything else you want to say, Katniss? Peeta?” She asks glancing between us.

I turn towards the camera, “It doesn’t matter how many soldiers you send, President Snow. We won’t stop fighting. This is the revolution and you can’t stop us!”

Peeta drops the gun as he turns back towards the refugees. I make my way back to Rory and Prim, both arguing, their voices high and shaking.

“They won’t let everyone ride in the hovercraft, but you can. You’re medically trained, there’s injured to take care of and you have the baby, they’ll let you.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine. I can walk. The others need me to keep them going.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“It’s not for long. I promise.” He kisses her and the baby once again and backs up. The injured are brought onto the hovercraft and Plutarch is waving. There isn’t time to argue. There isn’t any more time.

I pull Prim with me and we board the hovercraft as Rory leads the others to the woods. If anyone can get the others to Thirteen it’s him. And I can’t help but think Gale should be here, he should be helping. But I can’t think of him now, I can’t blame him now. This isn’t his fault.

“Can you?” Prim holds the baby out towards me. I stare at the infant, its eyes like hers and its hair like Rory’s. It reminds me of a time when my children were handed to me, when I heard their cries and saw their faces for the first time. I can’t move my arms to take the baby from her.

“Here,” Peeta interjects and takes the baby from my sister. “What’s their name?”

She smiles, “His name is Oliver, like dad.” She looks at me and there’s a sad look she hides, “His middle name is Gale.”

“You should check on the others,” I say, my voice flat and I can’t bring myself to look at my nephew. I don’t understand what it is I’m feeling, what this new pain is, but there’s something that prevents me from looking at the baby.

Peeta smiles to Oliver, rocking him just as he did with Ivy and Bas. And there’s a deeper pain in my heart at his look. He loved being a father.

He lifts his head to meet my eyes and there’s warmth despite the pain. He looks around, trying to make sure of something. He takes a relieved breath when he finds Beck leaning against the wall of the hovercraft, his hand over his side.

“Prim,” I say and I nod in the boy’s direction. She finishes checking a broken leg and moves on towards him.

I sit down, my heart heavy, my eyes ready to close as I watch the floor. I shift my bow onto my back and remove Ivy’s, my thumb running over the grain of the wood. I try to picture her making it, every detail and hour of work she put into it. I made her first one. She made this one. There are some swirls she carved into the side, something I told her she didn’t need, it wasn’t practical, but she did it anyway. It made it more distinguished, it made it hers. My fingers run over the pattern she put in, and then I hit something I haven’t seen, something that she must have added recently.

I look down and see it, the bird inside the circle, the Mockingjay. And it’s not as perfect or as practiced as Bas’ had been, but its there alongside her initials and a date.

I realize what the date is a moment later. The date she thought was the beginning of the end but was really the beginning of all of this. The date she sentenced herself to die and the date my worst fear came true. The date her name was called.

Reaping day.

_“I watched the house_  
 _As it fell right to the ground._  
 _I was away from you._  
 _I was away from you._  
  
_And I watched the birds_  
 _As they fell out from the sky._  
 _Into the hands of decay_  
 _I wish there was a way for you.”_

-          Beginnings – Houses


	4. The Mockingjay: Broadcast Frequency - Katniss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss comes to a decision about being the Mockingjay and deals with the aftermath of the Capitol's attack.

When we return to Thirteen, the wounded are taken off the hovercraft and brought into the hangar. I feel like I'm standing in the middle of wreckage and all I can do is watch it happen. Doctors and nurses all run forward, pulling gurneys and carrying equipment to be used. They triage who they can, marking who can be saved and who can't, taking refugees to medical or keeping them in the hangar. The ones who can walk do so but ones who can't are carried off the hovercraft.

Coin watches with Plutarch, standing a distance away, just out of reach of the refugees but observing all of it. Gale comes up behind them, his eyes locked on everything happening and the people coming out of the hovercraft. And he takes a glance to me, a flash of pain echoing across his features, and then he looks back to the people behind him. And I know what he's asking without him saying it. He's looking for his family.

Plutarch and Coin share a hushed conversation until Finnick pushes through them with Annie right beside him. They march forward as Beck exits the hovercraft, his hand on his bleeding side. Beck freezes for a moment, locking onto his father's stern stance and his mother's crossed arm stare. He stands as still as a deer in the woods, afraid to even move an inch.

Peeta pushes him forward with one hand, the other holding Prim's son, Oliver. He gives Beck a supporting nod as the boy lowers his head. Finnick grabs his son by the shoulder, a fear in his eyes that there will never be a relief for.

"Do you have any idea how…what were you thinking, why would you go?" His voice hitches and cracks, Annie places a hand on Finnick's shoulder and he lets out a breath.

"Beck," Annie says and there's nothing more she has to say. Beck shakes his head, unable to form a response. Instead all he does is wrap his arms around Finnick, resting his head against his father's chest.

"I'm sorry," he says, Annie holds onto Finnick's shoulder and places another hand on Beck's head before she kisses the top of it. She and Finnick share a look that mixes relief, concern, and pain all in one. Relief at seeing their son alive and mostly unharmed, concern that he's this reckless, this desperate for anything to hold onto, and the pain that comes with being a parent. The all-encompassing, never ending, worry and ache that you'll only hurt them or never do well enough, never be strong enough.

It's something I know well, something I tried to push through, to keep buried and hidden, tried to stay strong for Ivy and Bas. I couldn't back then and I can't now. All I want is to see my son smile or to hear my daughter's voice and that's not going to happen.

I turn back towards Peeta, an ache in my chest that I know he understands. He's the only one who can. His grip seems to tighten on baby Oliver. A part of me wants to ask him, to talk to him, but I've never been very good at opening up to people or telling them what I feel, and Peeta is no exception.

He watches Annie and Finnick take Beck towards a waiting doctor, pain etched into every part of his face, on every line and wrinkle that he's accrued over the years. And I feel that pain too, another family on the brink of destruction but saved, another family that isn't ours back together again. And as his eyes meet mine, the pain softens, but only for a moment, it returns all too quickly. There's an unasked question between us, something neither of us knows how to voice. I can feel it in the way he watches me, in the way the soft look falls, and the way he tries to hide everything. It's a silence between us that feels like a weight. He's never been the one to hold back, that's always been me, but now he's hiding just as much as I am.

His gaze falls to Oliver and he smiles, bright and calming, and the baby coos back at him. I look for Prim amidst the crowd, caring for the people at home and falling right in with the medical staff of Thirteen. When I look up at Coin, I see her watching me, like she's waiting for something.

I know what it is she's waiting for. A decision.

I nod to her, telling her I'm ready to be their Mockingjay in a single motion. She smiles, purposeful, all lip and without warmth, before turning away from the proceedings and issuing orders to Gale. He walks towards the side, following, but still keeping his eyes focused on the hovercraft, wary and losing hope. And when Posy exits the hovercraft, Gale's no longer walking where Coin told him to. He's turning towards his sister and running forward, ignoring his orders.

Coin says nothing, she just walks with Plutarch out of the room, but Gale reaches his sister and there's a moment of shock as her wide eyes burn with tears. She's staring, just staring, and shaking. His eyes fall to where her arm used to be and he doesn't know what to say, but there are tears in his eyes too.

"I knew you weren't dead, I knew you couldn't be…I didn't…" She chokes, "You're here," she cries and then he's holding her, hugging her close, careful not to touch where she's wounded and he bites back the tears falling onto her hair.

"You're here," she repeats in a whisper.

Gale watches the rest of the refugees leave the hovercraft and he asks, "Where's Vick? Rory?"

"Rory's fine, he's leading the others. Vick is…" And then she cries harder and Gale chews the inside of his cheek and pulls her tighter.

"We need to get you some help." Gale moves Posy towards another gurney, another medic, another waiting IV bag. And there's blood on sheets being cleared away, there are people crying for loved ones who didn't make it, and there's the smell of death and copper heavy in the air. My head spins, my stomach turns, and I hear cannons each time another medic says, "They're gone."

The sounds of the hangar echo with the moans of the wounded and dying. Orders are being issued by the medical staff, shouted over all the other noises, and there's the squeaking of wheels as gurneys come in and out and more medicine follows.

I still smell the fire and feel the ashes of Twelve sticking to me like a second skin. And I watch Gale reunite with his sister and Finnick and Annie with their son and Peeta holds Prim's child and all I want is mine.

Even in this chaos, even here, I would know she was safe. I would be happy she was safe. But there's no one waiting for me, no one looking amongst the people to see my face. Even Prim doesn't look back, not when she's working, not when she moves on to the next patient, she doesn't check that I'm still there. Would Ivy? Have I even been there enough for her to miss me?

I hear more cannons and it makes me jump at the sound, so clear like I'm in the arena all over again. I see the flash of blonde hair staring above a place designated for the lost. Sheets are over bloody faces and he's standing there, blood on his stomach, just as he was when the cannon sounded for him.

And behind him there's Thresh and Rue, Marvel and Glimmer, Cato and Clove, Cinna and a line of every tribute I sent into the arena. And I see a flash of Ivy with them, like she's one of the dead, one of the lost and then it's just Bas again, watching me.

"Mockingjay," he says but it's not his voice and I look behind me and there's a face half covered in blood and ash. And it's a young face, a tired but unblinking stare, and there's hope in their eyes.

"Mockingjay," they say again and they reach, with burnt fingers that can barely move. And it's instinctual as I reach back, trying to say I'm sorry, trying to do anything to make the pain end.

"He needs morphling," I call around, but there's no one to listen to me. I see the mark on his head, the triage designated for death, and there's no saving him. Just like there was no saving Bas.

He closes his fingers, trying to bring them to his lips but he moves too slow, and he's gone before he finishes the gesture. But I know what he was doing. His three middle fingers are still held in position as a sheet is pulled over his head.

My hands shake and my head spins and I keep hearing cannon after cannon mixed with the sounds of the people from my home looking at me and dying. I can't be a hero to them if I can't help them. I can't be this.

And all I want are my children, all I want is Peeta, I just want my family safe and together. But they're not here or they're disappearing and fading and changing and I'm alone. I'm going to always be alone. There are no reunions for me and no one waiting or hoping for me, not here.

I need to get out. I can't stay in this room. I can't watch them.

Bas stares at me as I leave, unyielding, like the very Mockingjay he painted. I'm not that, I'm not strong enough for this. I can't make my breathing slow down or stop my hands from shaking. None of this will stop.

I start walking, unsure of where I want to go or where I need to be, but it can't be here. I grip Ivy's bow, trying to ignore the date carved into the wood. That date might as well be cut into my very bones. I could never forget it.

I walk as fast as I can through Thirteen, avoiding the looks and questions. And there are plenty of looks, even whispers. That's been going on since I've arrived here, but it seems to only have increased.

I'm wearing proof of the war above their walls. And even here they look at me with uncertainty or disdain. They hate me, because I let them down. I let everyone down. And if that's true here, it's true all over Panem.

I remember Twelve had been revolting. They had been fighting by doing the only thing they could, by denying the Capitol the coal they had been forced to mine. But I don't think that was for me. That was for my children. That was for Peeta. Not for me. And after the attack and destruction, I don't think they'll ever want to fight with me or for me again. I ignore the image of the salute on the dying boy's fingers, they can't still want to follow after this.

Coin will blame me. I won't be surprised if she sends me away in her disappointment. Ivy will hate me. Peeta will too, if he doesn't already, and then he'll do what Coin asks. He'll make the speeches and they'll fight for him. He'd be better at it anyway, he would say and do the right thing.

I hear growling coming from behind me and I hear Rue's whistle and I close my eyes to it all. It's gone the next second and I start to run. I have to get somewhere safe, I have to get away.

No one stops me. They look, but they don't stop me.

That is until I run into the shoulder of someone stronger than me, their voice just as harsh as their stance.

"Don't you watch where you're going? Or do you just expect everyone to get out of the way of the great Mockingjay?"

"Johanna," I state and she watches me with that same predatory stare she always has, "Excuse me." I try to go around her but she blocks me.

"You're not going to apologize? Isn't that like your thing?"

"Get out of my way," I tell her and I feel like I'm being chased, like I'm cornered and captured, and then I hear a cannon and I jump. I hear the echoes of screaming from the hangar as medical staff tends to the refugees. My hand grips the bow tighter and I can't help but think about what Ivy is going through, if she even knows what happened to Twelve, or if they made her watch.

The hardened expression seems to soften on Johanna and there's a pain she shares too, she steps aside, and I catch the slight twitch of her hand. "You don't want to go in there," I say.

"Chaotic?" She asks.

I nod.

"They're wheeling in an awful lot of painkillers," she says with a kind of longing as another cart flies past us. "You think they'd notice if some go missing?"

And there's something more to the way she carries herself that I'm seeing now at her words. There's a deep shade beneath her eyes, it looks like she hasn't slept or she's been sleeping erratically. It's not unusual for Victors to self-medicate, not by a long shot, but I've never seen it on her before. Every year that I've been a mentor and seen her in the Capitol, she's always been calculating, on top of her game, never what I've seen from Haymitch or even others who take morphling. She's never been part of the one's who have given up before the Games even begin. I tried not to give up, I tried to do what I could to help them, but I wasn't the best at giving advice and soon enough I fell into the same pattern as Haymitch. I always knew they were going to die. But Peeta kept trying.

"Johanna," I try and I don't know what I can say or what I would even want to say.

"Are you gonna tell me it's bad for my health?" And that deep hurt stings and is so familiar in my own eyes that I understand. This isn't recent, but it's all finally just gotten to be too much. If I didn't have hope, however slight, that Ivy is still alive and could be saved, if I didn't have Peeta, whether I really have him or not, I might be in the same boat.

"No, I was gonna tell you to stick to the sides, they won't notice you in the crowd."

She nods, "Good advice. You want anything?"

I shake my head, "I have to be on camera."

"Of course you do," she sneers, "Better get to work, Mockingjay, the revolution isn't going to save itself. Don't let it die again."

And I remember the victory tour, how they all looked to me, how they were all waiting. And I read the words, I made the speeches, I went on camera. I played the part like it was the last thing I would ever do, because it might as well have been. And then the floggings started and the reports of the wedding and just how much I was in love with Peeta. It was all televised, all shown to every part of Panem until they were sick of seeing it.

And I became one of them. I was part of the Capitol machine, the Games, I was their Girl on Fire, not the Districts' Mockingjay. And I don't know if I can become their Mockingjay again, no matter how hard I try.

"Why do you hate me?" I ask and in all the years I've known Johanna she's never been kind, but I don't know why I feel the need to ask it now. Maybe it's because she's not the only one and I'm sure even more hate me now than they did before. And maybe if I can convince her, then I can convince others. And I can save Ivy.

She shrugs, "You're…in the beginning you were too nice, too pure, tough to swallow. Hope for the hopeless, help for the helpless, I want to save the people I love, Peeta is everything to me. And then that became," she mimics a doe eyed stare and lilt to her voice, "I want to thank the Capitol for my family and my life and they've been kind to me to let us both have our fairytale ending."

"That was a lie," I say.

"I know that, but it doesn't stop the act and it doesn't stop your whole I want to save everyone routine which isn't a routine and that makes it worse. Feel free to take this personally. And now they're still gonna look at you like you're their savior. No matter what you think, they'll all fall back in love with the Mockingjay now that her baby bird is in the clutches of the evil Capitol. They'll see you as a martyr all over again. A mother trying to save her remaining child."

I swallow, trying to ignore the jab at Ivy, "You should have been the Mockingjay, you just say what you think."

"Yeah, but no one likes me."

"I don't think anyone likes me either."

"That's not true. Grover was obsessed with you…" She fades away, her eyes going back to the hallway where the moans of the wounded are still coming from.

"I'm so—"

"Don't say it."

I remember the room in the training center where the bodies are brought and I remember seeing my son and Grover. And the Capitol is breaking both of us, taking from all of us.

"Don't get caught," I say and I walk on. Johanna calls after me.

"Enjoy the cameras."

"I always do," I say more to myself than to her.

I stow the bows underneath the bed Peeta and I share. I take my time changing, stripping away the smell of death and ash, to replace it with a new, clean jumpsuit. It doesn't make the sounds fade. It doesn't change the fact that all I can see is the fires tearing through my district and the fire of my arena as I ran right into the Careers and Peeta, trying to keep them away from me.

I remember tracker jackers and a cut across my face as Clove tried to kill me. And I remember hearing her head crack against the Cornucopia. And it's all coming back, my Arena, my Games, the memories I've tried to bury so I could be the Victor the Capitol wanted.

I slide to sit against the bed, my hand tucked underneath and brushing against Ivy's bow, my hand falls onto the old Mockingjay pin Ivy had given Bas when he died. And he brought it back, Ivy wanted him to bring it back, but still I keep it buried. I don't know what it is I'm supposed to be doing, if Coin wants me to start on my propos right away, or if she's giving me time. I doubt it'll be much time if she is.

I wonder if Gale and Posy are talking like old times, if she can so easily just understand where I can't. Maybe I can. I lied for my family. I buried a revolution for them. I could leave them if it meant protecting them. Maybe I should have left. And it's been a constant thought, only growing as the years went on, if I had left, would they have been safe? But I don't think they would have.

And it goes over and over and over in my head, around and around. Ivy in a cell. Snow laughing. Ivy screaming. Blood and tears and roses. It just keeps going. And then I see her in the Arena, lying on the ground without water, just like I had been in my own. And I see the image of Bas in her arms as she cries over him, his blood on the ground. And are they making her relive it? Are they showing her the Games like they showed me mine when I won? Are they calling her a Victor?

Years ago, shortly after Ivy was born, they set up a museum in the Capitol. They filled it with weapons of the Victors, traps they had set, parachutes and gifts that were sent to the Arena. There were highlights of the Games, models the Gamemakers used, training gear, costumes from the opening ceremonies and interviews. Cinna's first dress for me was in there along with the silver bow I used in my Games. There was everything anyone could ever want to see from, at the time, 83 years of Hunger Games.

There are more inside of it now.

We were there at the opening. Almost every Victor was and had to be. It was Ivy's first time on camera and that seemed to be the focus. The child of the star crossed lovers from Twelve, the Victors of the 74th Games, there to honor their victory and holding the new legacy who might one day have a place inside.

Someone had said it like a joke, like we should be proud and honored and playing along. They had hoped that one day her Games would be there and asked if we would like that too. And I hated that we were there, that we had to be there, I couldn't even try to smile. I just held Ivy tightly and blamed myself for bringing her there, but what could we do? Snow wanted her there and we had to listen.

And I see it like it's clear as day, her space in the museum, her Victory. I see the highlights and I wonder if they've already put it together, if it's already playing. And I see her kept inside, surrounded by all the history that is her legacy. And she's stuck inside a glass case where she can't move or speak, just sit and wait. And there's an image of Bas behind her, frozen for all to see, so they know that two went in but Ivy was the stronger one and she came out.

There's an announcement and the crowd surrounds her and she stands, lifting the bow, and everyone cheers. The Capitol kids bang on the glass, some of them wearing clothing that looks like hers, with hair that matches, and they make her sign pictures and weapons and any scrap of paper they can throw at her. And then the lights go down and she's still inside the glass case, kept by Snow forever, to be brought out when he wants.

I put her there. I brought her there. By Snow's design or not, I delivered her to that place.

I'm still sitting on the floor, my back against the bed, my eyes slammed shut trying to make the images stop, but they won't. They can't. She's not safe. She's not here. She's trapped in the Capitol.

The door opens and Peeta walks in. I look up, the confusion on my face. "I thought you would still be helping."

"They're processing the refugees and Cressida said she got enough footage of me. I wasn't useful anymore if there wasn't a camera on me."

He sits beside me and we fall into a silence that reminds me of our times on the roof, back when we were younger, when we both thought we were going to die before our Games, or when we had watched our tributes die and there was nothing else to do but wait for it to end.

It was just us, our moments of peace in the chaos.

"You should sleep," he says, "It's been a long day."

I nod, unable to say anything, and it feels like the early days, when we didn't know what to say, when there was nothing to talk about. When I still wasn't sure and I felt like I had trapped him by saving him. And he would never blame me, he would never fight and yell, and I waited for it, for the break.

It's all happening all over again. The silence and the space, except there's more to talk about, there are people we both love that we should talk about. Only I can't be the first one to say the words. I never was that. I don't know how to be that.

He stands like he's preparing to leave, but my hand grabs his and he turns back, unsure as to why I'm so scared. But the fear overwhelms me and I'm terrified to lose him. It's a panic that starts slow and collapses the last of whatever calm I had.

"Peeta…"

"I want to talk to Coin. Maybe they've heard something about Ivy." He squeezes my hand and kisses the top of my forehead, but it's mechanical, the usual, trying to calm me down like he always has. He lets his hand fall from mine and backs away once again, like he's ashamed.

And I know I'm not the only one blaming myself for what happened to Bas and what's happening to Ivy. But I don't know how to talk to him about it, how to tell him it's okay, because I'm not okay.

"Peeta," I try, standing to follow. He stops, his shoulders stiff as he turns around.

"Katniss," he says and his voice scrapes against his resolve, an edged sadness that cuts me even more than my own. "Don't say it."

"It's not your fault." I'm surprised that I can say it with strength and he shakes his head. "Twelve. Ivy. Bas. That's not your fault. You couldn't have done any more than you did."

"I didn't keep them safe. And you can't…you can't look at me and see a good father or person, when I couldn't…when you should blame me."

"Why would I blame you?"

"Because I lost them! Because I should have known that there was a plan. I should have fought harder. I should have kept them safe. You trusted me to do that and I didn't."

"I didn't either. Do you blame me?"

He shakes his head again, hard and sure, "Of course not."

"So then how could I blame you?"

He lets out a breath and his eyes are glassed over. He won't look at me. "But you blame yourself?"

I nod, "Yes."

"Then you should understand that I can blame myself too."

"I can't…I can't get through this alone, and you don't have to do it alone either. The only reason I got through the Victory Tour and everything after is because of you. Every speech, every camera, every reaping day, you were there." I take a breath, trying to steady my voice as the words keep crumbling from me, and then I admit, "I should have never made you marry me, I shouldn't have…"

He steps forward, his hand on my shoulder, his eyes staring into me.

"You didn't make me do anything."

"Snow did," I say. His hand lands on my cheek, cool against the warmth of my skin, and there's a long silence that follows. Then I finally ask, "Were we happy? In between all the other stuff, were we happy?"

"I was. You know, I married you because you asked, and if you had asked without the Games or Snow, I would have still said yes."

I lean into the touch, a tear falling from my eyes, and this feels like goodbye.

"I kept trying to think of ways to talk to you in Twelve. I thought about getting up earlier than my family, baking cookies or something, then walking over to your house or waiting outside of school. But every time I thought I had the courage, I told myself she doesn't know who you are, Peeta, she'll probably punch you. So I never did." He shrugs, his hand still on my cheek and I smile and laugh despite my tears. And more are falling now and I'm not even trying to fight them.

"You thought I didn't know?" And I remember telling him in the cave in our Games, telling him how he fed me, how he had saved me. And he gave me hope when I needed it most, along with the knowledge I could survive, and I need that now again.

"Back then," he says, "But now I know you did."

"I always did." And I never told him that part, how I would catch glimpses of the boy with the bread, how I would walk past the bakery a little slower, wondering if he was there. I never told him that there was a part of me that hoped he would talk to me, that considered talking to him, but was too afraid.

I lay my head on his chest and breathe him in as his arms encircle me and pull me closer. "I wouldn't have punched you."

His laugh rumbles against me and I feel a drop on my head from his own tears and hear a sniffle. "I have to go," he says.

"Please," my hand grabs his, "Don't leave."

He looks to the door and that gap between us comes back as he wipes his eyes.

"Stay with me," I say echoing the words on the train all those years ago, when my nightmares were too much and he could make them disappear. And right now I need to make his disappear, the guilt and the pain. I need to make it go away. He can't leave, not now, not when we're like this. Not when we're so fragile and ready to break apart. He needs to know that, from me, most of all, because I've never been the one to say it.

"Always," he answers after the silence fades and he lets me pull him to the bed, lying down beside me as I rest my head on his chest. He takes a deep breath and his warmth dries my tears and warms the hollow in my chest where all my own guilt has buried itself deep.

"Thank you for the bread," I tell him, quiet in the dark, wondering if he's asleep.

"I love you," he says to me.

"I love you too. You're forgiven." His hand tightens on me.

"You are too."

And then we fall asleep to the sound of each other breathing, there and solid, driving out all our guilt in the darkness of our room and the warmth of our bed.

When I wake, he's gone.

I check for his things, the one's Thirteen gave him and the things he had on him in the Capitol escape. They're still there, still in the room, but I don't know if he's coming back for them or coming back at all.

I can't dwell on it. There are things I have to do.

I need to eat and I want to check on Prim. I need to keep myself busy. I have to be the Mockingjay and regardless of whatever Peeta and I are going through, Ivy still needs us. He won't abandon her and I won't either. We just have to do what we have to do to get through it.

I sit beside strangers in the mess hall, picking at bland food and wondering if getting through it is easier said than done.

"Oh dear, this food is just as horrid as their clothing, isn't it?" Effie says, taking a seat across from me. She isn't wearing makeup and the single color clothing she has, she's cut and restyled to make it hers. I commend her tenacity for attempting to be fashionable, even here. She still looks like herself despite all of it.

"It's better than nothing," I respond and Effie murmurs against my response.

"That attitude is no way to get by in life. Better than nothing isn't really anything. And you deserve the best. You always have. Remember that," Effie says, pointing a finger at me to illustrate her point.

"It's good to see you, Effie."

She smiles at that, "And you too, dear. I'm glad you're okay."

I nod, though I don't know if "okay" is the right word for what I am. Alive, yes, but not okay. Effie picks at her food as the sounds of others talking buzzes around us. And I can sense Effie waiting to say something more, dancing around whatever the words are.

"You can say it," I tell her and she lets out a breath.

"Plutarch told me you're going to be the Mockingjay."

I nod.

"I'm going to help you. And Ivy."

"Thank you," I respond and she smiles, and I know that Peeta and I aren't the only ones who miss her, but I've never seen it so clear on Effie's face before. And I think of the years she brought Ivy and Bas gifts, showing she cared in the best way she knew. Giving them clothes and telling them to stand up straighter, coaching them in the same trill and tone she used on Peeta and me, but there was more to it, a deeper kindness and love. She lost them too.

There's a sharp sound of the Panem anthem and the screens inside the mess hall blink on. I turn and feel like I'm moving in slow motion as Caesar comes on the screen. He's wearing a deep green suit, his hair matching. And in any other circumstance I would like the color, if I were in the woods I would love the color, Ivy would too. But on him, it makes me sick.

He finishes his greeting, his serious tone falling away to his large smile and fake, bright tone. His leg crosses one over the other and he holds note cards like it's any other interview, like it's any other day.

And then he reveals his guest, "To shed some light on the truth, please welcome, our own Princess of Panem, Ivy Mellark."

The breath leaves my lungs and I feel like I've been shot, the bullet tearing through me piece by piece as she sits poised and smiling.

"Oh no," Effie says aloud, her eyes glued to the screen.

And Caesar no longer matters, nothing else in this room matters. All I can see is her, the healthy and well-dressed teenage girl, my daughter, sitting across from him. And she doesn't look scared. She doesn't look abused or malnourished. She looks…good. She sits up straight, she smiles, at ease, like she always is.

They've put makeup on her, trimmed her hair so it doesn't look overgrown and smoothed it out. Any injuries she'd suffered in the Games are all gone. You wouldn't even know she had been in them. The way they've dressed her, all bright colors, so she stands out, so she looks different. You wouldn't even know she was mine.

And there's a part of me that's relieved to see her alive, despite all of it. She's still breathing and that's what counts. She's in the Capitol, she isn't safe, but she's alive.

"It's nice to see you again, Caesar," she responds with a sweet smile.

I glance to the people around me, some sparing me a return look, a wariness to their eyes that borders on anger, on hate. Hate for her?

"Let's talk about the end of the Games? You were about to kill Cain and then," he claps his hands together, "everything went dark. What happened?"

"I'm not really sure myself. I was all set to win and then like you said, it just went dark. I'd like to know what happened myself," she laughs and it breaks me even more.

"You were on track for a victory, I will say that. Rightfully deserved," Caesar retorts, "I'll tell you in all honesty, you were my favorite."

"I thought you weren't supposed to admit that," she jokes and he laughs.

"I think I can now."

"I'm sure they knew anyway," she laughs again before it dies down and she continues, "I'll admit I certainly thought I was going to win."

"Quite dramatically too. Probably would have been remembered for years." He sighs before remarking, "Shame about your brother." My chest tightens as he continues, "But not you."

"Guess I'm the lucky one," she responds with a shrug. And she's so good in front of the cameras, she always has been, that even I struggle to understand if this is real or not. If she's still playing the Game or if she believes it.

"Beck Cresta, we saw how he was willing to ally with you, he could have been a contender as well, that is unless…"

"I would have killed him, if I had to. To win." And she remains impassive and I imagine Beck seeing this from the hospital, because I'm sure it's playing on every screen across Thirteen. And I wonder how he feels, how Peeta feels. What are they thinking? What's Prim seeing? Gale?

"That's what I like about you. That passion, drive, it's necessary to be a Victor. Your mother had it." His voice lowers and he takes on a note of seriousness, "These rumors, about her, Katniss, this revolution…"

"She wouldn't be part of any revolution. She wouldn't!" Ivy contains her anger and I'm not sure if it's part of the act, if they've told her to denounce it and to defend me for the masses.

"Ivy, calm down," Caesar says, looking into the camera, "Family issues," he tsks, then, "Certainly not something we were let in on during their interviews. Guess you don't really know people, right folks?"

"I'm sorry." She sits back, a little straighter, but trying to ease herself, "I'm okay."

"Do you want to continue?" He asks, his voice gentle and encouraging, a lie. I'm scared of what happens when the camera goes dark or if she says no. I don't know if I'll ever see her face again after this, or what the plan is for her.

And I'm even more terrified when she nods, fervent and sure.

"My mother has been loyal to the Capitol for years. Why would that change now? They must be lying or holding her captive." And the way she says it, I'm no longer sure she's playing a role, I start to think she might actually believe all of it.

"Effie," I say and I find she's standing right along with me, watching the broadcast on her feet.

"It's not her," she says, but I don't think she's convinced either, "She's just saying what they're telling her to. Following the cards, something I'm certain she didn't learn from you," she digs at me but the joke fails to relieve me and I can't take my eyes off her or the screen. And they have to be telling her to say it, they have to be feeding her the lines, she can't honestly believe all of it.

"And do you have a message for her?" Caesar asks, his tone keeping everything going like it's any other interview like it's any other day.

"I have two messages, one for her and one for the rebels, if that's alright with you." He nods and indicates with his hand which camera to look into. She does, her face the only thing on screen.

"To my mother, if they're even letting you watch this, I want you to know that I don't believe that you'd be part of this. You know what's important, what matters. And you have for years. I love you." She smiles, and it's not her usual for the masses, this one I recognize, this one I know is real. Caesar lets out an emotional sigh at that.

And the words sting, they don't sound right, they don't sound real, but they are.

She stiffens, her eyes serious and particular as she keeps looking into the camera, "And to the rebels, please think about what you're doing and what you're about to do. Is a war something you really want? There's going to be a lot of death because of it and no going back after. Is that what you're prepared for? I know I'm not. You've been behind the Capitol for a hundred years, why change that now? Do the right thing. Lay down your weapons. Stand with the Capitol."

The crowd in the mess hall starts shouting, roaring at the betrayal. There are words of hate echoing all around me but one I hear the most is, "traitor," while things are thrown at the screens.

"Thank you, Ivy." Caesar says and he holds out his hand and she takes it, standing with the Capitol, true to her words.

"Traitor!" It only gets louder.

"Ivy Mellark," he closes.

The anthem plays again. The screen goes black with a message that repeats Ivy's words, "Stand with the Capitol." And I start pushing my way through the crowd that grew as the broadcast aired, all rushing together, all angry and screaming.

I don't know if Effie is anywhere near me anymore, because I'm pushing my way out of the mess hall and down a hallway, just trying to disappear from this.

"Traitor!"

There are glances to me, cast away eyes that won't look or stare any longer than a second, and I wonder if they're thinking about calling me the same thing or if they have. And it wouldn't be difficult to imagine, Ivy painted me the same way, a loyalist, and I haven't done anything to disprove that over the years.

My broadcast hasn't aired yet, I'm sure it hasn't, because the glances would be gone at the look of destruction across my District, at my angry words.

"Traitor!"

I feel like my entire being has been crushed beneath two weights and I'm flat and lifeless and there's no way to pick myself up. And I can't tell if she's being controlled, if they're making her say it, but they have to be. But she said I love you and she smiled and it was real. And she couldn't believe that I wouldn't fight for her, that I wouldn't be part of this for her, if that's what she's thinking at all.

But maybe she could. Because I never said it back and maybe that makes it easier for her to believe. But she said I would do what's right, that I knew what was right. Do I? Did I send her right to them, ready to be used? I walked her into the Capitol. I brought her into this world and in front of those cameras. I set her up. I brought this on her. I don't think I do know and I taught her all of the things I hated myself for.

"Traitor!"

My guilt eats away at me as the shouts echo through Thirteen. And I know the word isn't just for Ivy, it's for me too. I betrayed her. I betrayed Bas. I betrayed everyone.

I find a corner beneath some pipes and I hide there, covering my ears, and trying to will it all away.

_"There is an answer in a question_   
_And there is hope within despair_   
_And there is beauty in a failure_   
_And there are depths beyond compare_   
_There is a role of a lifetime_   
_And there's a song yet to be sung_   
_And there's a dumpster in the driveway_   
_Of all the plans that came undone"_

\- Black Sun – Death Cab for Cutie


	5. The Mockingjay: Fractures - Katniss and Peeta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta deal with the effects of the broadcast as Katniss continues to work towards being the Mockingjay and inspiring the country once again.

Katniss –

I work my way towards medical, keeping my eyes glued to the ground. I don’t want to see anyone’s pitying or hateful looks towards me. I don’t want to hear the word traitor in their eyes. Even if they never say it aloud, I can feel the word seeping and bleeding through every part of me, etched into my skin and my blood. They look at my daughter and they see me and my betrayal, they look at us both and the word buries itself into us.

I just need a friendly face. A face that won’t try to shoulder the blame or hold their words back, a face that can sympathize without pity, one that will give me the right advice. It’s a face that I haven’t taken time to talk to in a while, not really, not honestly, but who I would still protect with every fiber of my being.

Medical is still in disarray, even hours later, as they try to treat all the refugees. Some people are settled and treated and resting comfortably, while others still wait to be helped or are being treated right out in the open. I don’t think there are enough beds for the amount of patients. And when Rory arrives there are only going to be more. And even at this sight, I know there are bodies lying dead back in Twelve, more than who made it here.

I see my sister, tired but focused, on a young man with a broken arm. She checks his bandages and his vitals, giving him all the necessary medication for the pain. She refers to a Thirteen Doctor for some of the medication, writing it down as he retrieves it. In Twelve we had limited access to what Thirteen can produce here. They’ve prepared for a war with all the amenities needed, including the top painkillers and anti-inflammatories, not quite what’s in the Capitol, but certainly better than our District. The Doctor smiles to her as she moves on to the next patient with ease, falling right into a rhythm with the ebb and flow of pain and suffering around her.

I watch her for a few minutes as she checks patients and helps nurses and doctors treat others. I hear the blaring of a machine as another patient dies and the sheet is pulled over their head. Prim looks away as the body is wheeled past her and I can see the weight on her shoulders, the toll it’s taking on her. And all of a sudden I don’t feel like I’m looking at my little sister anymore. She’s grown up.

It’s not something that came as a surprise. It’s not something I haven’t really realized before. She has a husband and a child. I know she’s grown up. But I could disappear and she would be fine. She could handle herself.

She doesn’t need me.

Like all the rest of the people I love, I tried to distance myself to keep her safe, but only when I was sure, only when I knew she could handle it. And as the years went on, she noticed, she kept asking what I was going through, but I kept it all in. I’ve always kept it all in the best I can, it’s the only thing I could do. Then, a new thought falls over me, a haunting thought.

Is this how Gale felt before he left?

Did he feel that he was no longer needed so he could move on? That he could handle what his own aspirations were and his siblings would be fine without him, that they had grown enough without him and he could fade away and they would be okay? Did he spare me a thought? My oldest friend, did he reach that conclusion that I was gone from his life too? That the Capitol had claimed me and he was no longer welcome in my life? Combine that with his frustration over my lack of action and it almost seems easy, it almost seems like I am him and I can understand all of it. The anger doesn’t subside, the hurt doesn’t leave, but I understand it more.

But the differences between Gale and I remains the same. Despite everything, I would never leave, I could never leave. Even if I had considered it once before, I was going to take everyone with me who mattered, I wouldn’t leave them behind. And as I look at Prim my conclusions are different and a little more selfish. She doesn’t need me, but I need her.

“Prim,” I say and she lifts her head, her tired eyes warm and relieved to see me. She walks over to me and I pull her in a hug. She hugs me back with all the strength she can muster.

“I saw the broadcast,” she says, her voice raked with exhaustion but still mustering sympathy and an absolute kindness that’s so clear and resolved I wish I could hear it all the time. Peeta’s kindness is different, his resolve is different, more now than ever. There’s a darkness that’s taking hold of the two of us, full of loss and pain, and neither one of us can fight the others demons when we can’t even fight our own.

But I can’t think of that now. I came to see Prim, to hear her advice and the kindness she has, not to think of all the pain that’s closing in and ready to rip me apart from the inside out.

We break the hug and she turns to one of the doctors, “I’m taking a break.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, “There’s more important…”

“Katniss, they’ve been telling me to take a break for hours.” She smiles and we walk away from the patients and doctors. We pass a bed where Posy rests, her arm bandaged and a machine monitoring her. Gale stays vigilant at her bedside, his eyes meeting mine as I pass.

“Katniss,” he says, standing, “I saw…I saw her on the screens…that’s not…it’s not her. They’re making her say it.” And his eyes are bloodshot and restless, his hair a mess.

“I know they are.” And whatever anger I have towards him, towards his leaving, it recedes in this moment and there’s a shared grief at the loss of our home, at the taking of my daughter. And I remember how much he loved to babysit when I asked, how much he enjoyed having Ivy out in the woods, carrying her on his shoulders and showing her how to build traps and design ones of her own.

“How’s Posy?”

“Asleep. I’m waiting for…”

“Katniss?” I turn and there’s a sharp intake of breath from the woman in front of me. Her hair longer, her wrinkles more defined, but the smile the same.

“Madge?” I ask and the sight of another old friend, another long gone friend, brings a new mixture of emotions. I wasn’t sure, not really, but I suspected she was here. And I wonder how the journey was for her, how much she had to endure on her own, or if Gale was there waiting to get her to their new home.

“So I guess you made it here, then.” I turn to look back to Gale and I don’t have the strength to be angry. There’s no room for whatever anger I may have for them. They left when they had to, they did what they thought was best to have the life they wanted.

I can’t fault them for it. Not really.

“I wanted to write to you, but Gale said it was too dangerous, that Snow would try to…I’m sorry about your daughter and your son. How are you?”

I shake my head and I find I don’t have a response, because I don’t know.

“Where’s Peeta?” She asks, looking around and I shake my head again. Another thing I don’t know.

“Madge, we should let Katniss,” Gale starts and Madge nods, understanding, heading to his outstretched hand and taking it in hers.

“If you need someone to talk to, you can come by our unit. I teach most days but I’m always available after dinner.”

I nod but I have no intention of visiting her or Gale. They aren’t the people I knew anymore. They aren’t friends who I can share things with anymore. They don’t understand it, not really. They don’t know what it’s like to have your kids reaped, to have to watch year after year as your tribute dies. They don’t understand what it is to have people look at you and see a savior or a traitor, to have Snow tell you what to do and when to do it.

They understand what it’s like to live under his control, but they don’t understand what it means to be a Victor or the Mockingjay. And no words I say can ever explain it. And I won’t try to. They don’t need to hear it.

Prim and I leave them and as we walk further away from the center of medical, we pass a room where Beck is being forced back into bed by Annie. She looks angry, beyond angry, the kind of anger I’m all too familiar with in moments where I was so afraid I couldn’t contain it. The last time I truly felt it was when Bas painted the Mockingjay. It’s an anger that would tear the world apart to make them understand, an anger that brings with it the fear of love and loss. A mother’s anger.

And all the while Beck keeps fighting against her.

“I can’t stay in this bed!”

“You have to,” she yells at him, “You won’t get better if you don’t. And then what are you going to do? What am I going to do?”

And that’s the break that makes him stop. He sits back as her hand leaves his chest where she was pushing him back into bed. She shakes her head, sitting beside him. I see Finnick coming down the hall with a doctor in tow.

He sends the doctor in and nods to me. “He’s fussy, ripped his stitches. Never liked being told to stay put.”

“Probably gets that from you,” I say. Finnick laughs and shakes his head.

“No, that’s all Annie.” He shrugs and there’s a quiet sincerity when he says, “Snow has ways of making people say what he wants them to say. He won’t hurt her as long as he needs her, as long as she says what he wants. She’s smart. She’ll play it right.”

“Thanks,” I reply but I find no reassurance in his words, only a cold feeling where hope should be. She’s useful for now, but how long that lasts and what Snow continues to put her through is ever changing, and there’s no comfort in that.

He walks into his son’s room as Prim and I continue down the hall, finding a small room away from everything.

“Are you okay?” Prim asks and I’m so tired of hearing people ask me that question that it makes me want to scream, but I don’t.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly and she’s the only one, besides Peeta, who I can tell that too, who I can admit it too. Because everyone else expects me to be strong, to be fearless, to be their Mockingjay, but Prim understands and so does Peeta.

“I have to be the Mockingjay and now Ivy’s…I don’t know what to do about it, I don’t know what Snow is going to keep doing to her, and Coin...”

Prim takes a long breath and leans against the wall. She muses for a moment before stating, so matter of fact that it’s almost unnerving in its simplicity, “Ask them to get her back.”

“What?”

“Ask Coin to get Ivy back. They need you, Katniss. If they want you to be the Mockingjay, that means they need you. They’ll give you whatever you ask for. You’re important to them. And if you want Ivy back, they’ll have to get her back.” And it’s the obvious answer, or it feels like it in her words. She’s right. I know she’s right. What I want, what I need, they’ll have to listen or they won’t have a Mockingjay.

“They think she’s a traitor,” I respond, “And they have Peeta to be their voice of the rebellion if they want.”

“You tore down an arena for Ivy. You buried Rue. You volunteered for me,” she says it with awe and reverence, her voice tinged with a strength that inspires my own, “You’re the Mockingjay. And they’ll listen to you if you make them.”

“Thank you,” I tell her and I give her a hug before I leave the room.

I keep my head held high. I have to. It’s the only way Coin will listen. I have to be strong. I have to get what I want.

I wrote it down. My demands. I wrote them carefully and purposefully, trying to keep it in the forefront of my mind making sure that I didn’t mess up a single word. This isn’t something to be done in half-measures and Coin has to listen, I have to make her listen.

Prim told me that I’m important, that they’ll give me what I want. It’s time I earned that importance, time I used it for good, rather than what I have used it for before. To stop a rebellion, to do what Snow wanted, but I’m not doing that anymore. Now I’m starting a rebellion, keeping it going, and I’m getting my daughter back.

I bump into Gloss on my way, his hair in disarray, his eyes red and tired.

“Sorry,” he says as his shoulder collides with mine, not bothering to stop or turn around.

I catch Emery following after, a concern deeply etched into her features, making her appear older than she is. She spares me a glance, a hardened angry one, as she follows her father. And I remember Cashmere, still in the Capitol with Ivy, no broadcast to speak of. I don’t even know if she’s still alive and I suppose neither do they.

Emery finally reaches her father, looping an arm with his. He lifts his head, aware of the people and surroundings and she leads him back towards their quarters.

I hear her say, “You should sleep, dad,” in a soothing voice, pulling him despite his meager protests.

“They have her, Em, they’re not gonna do anything to help her, she’s gonna die.”

“No, she’s not. She’s too strong to die there,” Emery supplies, the sharpness in her tone masking the slight shake to her shoulders as she takes her father’s weight, guiding him as he leans on her. I’m surprised she can carry him like this, her lithe figure betraying the real strength underneath. She hid it well at the beginning of the Games, a strategy I’m sure she was told to use until the very end. And a part of me knows I should feel no sympathy, she tried to burn my daughter alive, to coax her out to kill her with Cain. I’m sure after they were done with that she was going to turn around and kill the other Career, she had to have a plan for that.

And I should hate her for all that and the part she played in killing my son but right now I can’t muster enough anger to hate her. Not when I see her carrying her father, his pain flowing freely off his features while she tries to hide her own and keep composure in this place, with people that probably look at them like traitors too.

How many Victors’ children have dealt with this moment? With damaged parents they have to care for. How many lives have Snow and the Games ruined? And I think about Bas, dealing with my nightmares and Ivy who ran from them. And they suffered far more for my sins than anyone else. They paid more for my participation and victory in the arena than all the rest. I think about Beck, about Grover, even Emery, all paying for their parents’ victories.

I add to my demands.

I march into the meeting room where Coin sits at the table with Plutarch, maps and charts between them. I haven’t seen Peeta all day and I was wondering, hoping, I would find him here, but he’s not. I don’t know where he is.

I have to keep my focus up, my strength up, they have to listen. Coin has to listen.

“Yes?” Coin asks and I flatten out the piece of paper on my leg before lifting it to read.

“I promise to be the Mockingjay, but I have some demands.”

“Okay,” Coin says and I was prepared for an argument, so I’m a little thrown when she sits to listen. I refer to my paper once again but I memorized the words long ago, before I was even writing them.

“I want to be allowed to go outside and to hunt and I’ll bring back food. I can take someone with me if it’s safer.”

Coin nods along while she listens, not agreeing or disagreeing to anything. I continue, my voice growing stronger as I head right into my big demand, the most important one, “I want Ivy to be rescued along with the other captured Victors and tributes, upon which they will be given full pardons.”

I wait but there’s no response.

“Is that all?” Coin asks.

I nod and she puts down her pen, responding with a flat, “No.”

I’m taken aback and I’m ready to argue. Plutarch starts to interject but Coin holds up a finger to stop him.

“I can’t authorize the release and pardoning of known traitors to the cause. Thirteen won’t have it. And I can’t let you outside in case there are bombers.”

I take a breath and the word traitor sets me on edge. “Ivy isn’t a traitor.”

“Her interview would beg to differ.”

I lean forward, my hands resting on the table, staring Coin down, “She’s doing what she has to so she can survive, just like she did in the Games, just like I did. You will rescue her and you will give her immunity along with Cashmere and any others at your earliest convenience or you will find yourself another Mockingjay!”

Plutarch points to me with a smile, “There she is! There’s the revolutionary,” he says to Coin, “That’s what we need.”

There’s a terse silence between them. A pressure that seems to build until Coin sighs, seeming to understand, “I’ll agree to your demands. But understand this. If you fail to deliver, the deal is off. No outside. No immunity. They will be tried as traitors, is that clear?”

I nod.

“Good. Go see Beetee, he has something for you as does your Capitol escort,” Coin says, the word Capitol brimmed with distaste and hatred. She turns back to a paper with her own notes and a map. Gale walks in behind me. Coin nods to him in greeting.

“How’s your sister?”

“Doing okay, healing. Thank you for asking, Madam President,” Gale states, standing straight, his shoulders broad, keeping his strength in front of Coin, but even now I can see the remnants of my old friend and the cracks in the foundation where he’s threatening to fall apart.

“And where are we on Operation Castle?”

“I thought that was scrapped, it was too risky,” Gale questions.

“We may still have use for it or part of it,” She looks at me, “You’re dismissed, Mellark.”

“You can use Everdeen,” I say, feeling a slight betrayal to my words. “It’s probably better to remind people who I used to be.”

“Then, you’re dismissed, Everdeen.”

“We’ll get started in a few hours. Once I’m finished here.” Plutarch smiles to me and I leave the room, folding the paper and putting it back in my pocket.

As I close the door behind me I hear, “We have a new operation, Captain. We’ll need your team.”

 _Captain_? Gale’s a _Captain_? They only ever referred to him as Soldier, and what team? What’s he truly been doing in Thirteen for eleven years? And all the secrets about my friend come back to haunt me, questions I want answers to, things I wish I could know.

And I remember being younger and him talking about the Games, how much he hated them, how much he hated the Capitol and the weight we lived under. And then I truly see, more than I want to, the choice that was laid before him and the chance he took with it.

Of course he’s a Captain. He would never just be a Soldier. Not here. Not in this war. And I want the truth, I want to know the story of how it all happened, because maybe it means there’s hope for me and for Ivy and for anyone else who is still fighting. We can win, win something, win anything, and make it through another day, escape from Snow, from the Capitol, it could be possible.

I hear the sounds of sparks and metal clanging as I walk into the workshop Beetee has made for himself. It’s large and vast with targets at the far wall and weaponry lying on tables in cases and on stands, just waiting to be used. A computer runs numbers and codes and I don’t recognize a single thing on it.

A head pops up from behind a small box like device, goggles covering their eyes and grease on their face. It’s Springer, looking much brighter than he did in the Arena. He wears a lopsided smile, or as close to one as he can manage. He slides the goggles down his face and nods in greeting.

Beetee wheels around from another computer.

“It’s not compressing like it should,” Springer says to Beetee.

“The wiring is overloaded,” Beetee responds after taking a look at Springer’s project. He turns to me, “We’re trying to figure out a way into the Capitol’s network. We’ve managed to break in enough to show the Propos to Panem and any messages, but if we could actually get inside the Capitol…”

“The effect could be immeasurable,” Springer finishes, sliding the goggles back onto his face. He ducks back down to his project, sparks and coils maneuvering around.

“But that’s not for you to worry about right now,” Beetee wheels past me, holding an arm out towards a brand new bow, all black and ready for war, metallic and perfect, resting on a stand just for me. A part of it reminds me of the silver one sitting in the museum, my name below it etched finely and with enough elegance to make everyone forget how it got there in the first place, with blood and sacrifice.

“We have incendiary arrows, explosive, regular and Springer thinks he might be able to manage a high voltage one.”

On cue, Springer looks up from his project and gives a thumbs up, “I’ve got a prototype already in the works.”

“He’s eager to please and quite interested in electricity.”

“Just like his uncle,” I state and Beetee smiles sadly at that. It’s the same sad smile I have whenever someone reminds me of Ivy’s interests, ones that fall so squarely with mine, that it scares me, it always scared me. Because those interests that start so innocent, are twisted by the Capitol and the Games, made to be tokens of relation between Victors and their children, excited theorizing for future events and possibilities, and it no longer becomes just an interest, it’s survival and it’s victory or defeat.

The traps Springer built in the Games tie to his enjoyment of building things in the past and present and future. All of it molded together so that anything he builds from this point forward or anything he built before is tainted by war and violence and memory. The goggles cover his eyes, but the slanted smile, the small sense of peace and lightness, it’s gone as his concentration grows and his hands tighten on the next tool he needs. When he pulls a wire out with more violence than necessary, Beetee wheels over to put a hand on his shoulder and tells him to take a break.

“He’s been working day and night, hardly sleeps.” It’s then that I see the mussed up blankets and half made cot in the corner where drawn up plans and scribbled notes are taped to the wall and along the floor.

“The broadcast didn’t help.” He cleans his glasses and puts them back on, “Which I’m sure is common and what Snow wanted, though I imagine his target was more singular than the whole of the rebellion.”

“It was meant for anyone who knew her.” My agreement to the beginning of his statement goes unsaid. I know it was meant for me more than anyone else, an opposing viewpoint to counteract my statements and actions, to make me think twice about what I was doing knowing Peeta would feel and do the same.

“A dangerous game,” Beetee says to himself. He points to the bow. “You can try it out if you want.”

I hesitate for a moment, though I’m not entirely sure why. The one I brought from home hides away in my room, right beside Ivy’s, but there’s something different about this one, something tangible and filled with more meaning than I want to apply to it. It’s not a weapon for survival, it’s a weapon for war, and I’m the Mockingjay.

I bury my fears. I can’t be what I need to be if I let them consume me. I have to fight for Ivy. I have to fight for Peeta. I have to fight. So I pick it up, surprised at the lightness despite the weight it brings to my mind. It’s smooth and cool, perfect, even better than the one I used in my Games.

I pick up an arrow with a red tip but Beetee stops me, “You don’t want to use that one inside.” Instead he hands me a yellow one, “That one’s fine.”

I step up to the range and knock the arrow, pulling the string back with a breath, and it feels like coming home, like I’m doing something I was always meant to. It’s not perfect. I don’t feel happy or elated. I just feel more like myself than I have in weeks, in years.

I fire the arrow and the target erupts in flames, a second later there’s the sound of an alarm and a hose descends from the ceiling, dousing the fire out.

“Very nice,” Beetee compliments. “We’ll have it all ready and loaded for you before your propos. Cressida wanted to make sure they were cinematic enough.”

“Cinematic?” I ask.

He shrugs, “She’s selling a war, it needs to be engaging,” he wheels back to one of the computers, pushing aside some of Springer’s work, “I have something for Finnick and Beck, if you want to let them know, whenever they can come around.”

“I don’t think that’ll be happening any time soon, especially not Beck.” I recount the hospital and the ripped stitches and a half smile forms on Beetee’s face.

“He certainly doesn’t like being told what to do,” Beetee says, “I have something for Ivy too, if…” But the rest remains unspoken. I’m reminded of the losses, of the ghosts in the room when I imagine Bas seeing me standing here, a weapon in my hand, ready to raise an army and fight even though I don’t really know how or if I can. When my doubts still scream in my head, I imagine him watching me, telling me he believes, because he always did.

“Have you seen Peeta?” I ask as Beetee takes the bow from my outstretched hand.

“No, I haven’t. Has he gone somewhere?” Beetee places the bow back on its stand to be used another day. “Perhaps Coin sent him…”

“He has to film a propo. He wouldn’t be sent anywhere. Unless he decided to…” I think about him on the front lines, talking to troops, trying to rally support but I can’t make the image fit. He wouldn’t go there, even if he no longer cared what happened to him, he wouldn’t be out there when Ivy still has the chance to be rescued.

Unless he no longer saw any chance. Unless the broadcast made him lose all hope.

But even then the picture doesn’t feel right, even then he would still fight, he would still do what he had to, but he wouldn’t do something reckless and stupid, not yet. I would, but not him.

“I’m sure he’s just working through whatever he needs to. We all are.” Beetee turns back to his work and I take my queue to leave, passing Springer, really seeing his eyes for the first time. They’re blotchy and red, fading with a need to sleep, but he forces them open, keeping himself going with some unspoken motivation. He returns to his station, pulling at wires once again, this time with more fervor and anger than before, like they’re the cause of all of our problems and the solution.

Peeta –

I’m too warm. I’m too cold. I’m nothing. I’m everywhere. I’m nowhere. I’m a father. I’m a husband. I’m a brother. I’m a son. I’m none of those things. I’m all of them. There are no words for what I am anymore.

I remember the room. I remember talking to Katniss and her asking me to stay. I left her asleep in the bed, a part of me screaming to turn around and stay there, wrap myself in her arms and never think about leaving again. But the other part of me, some broken and dark part, won. It made my legs move, made me quieter than I ever had been before, probably for the first time in my life, and that part of me told me to walk and I did.

And I kept walking.

Through the rest of the night, until my muscles ached and screamed, past the pain, I kept walking. It’s all I can do right now. The only time I stopped was when the broadcast aired.

I saw Ivy’s face. I heard her words, knowing that I agreed, that a war isn’t the answer, it can’t be. More violence, all it does is cycle around and around, there has to be a better way, a way to beat the Capitol without destroying people. But I know she isn’t safe, I know that fighting is what’s going to bring her home, but it can also kill her. It killed my son, it killed my home, my brothers and my mother and father, however I felt about them, they were still taken, a war killed them.

I fought back too, I fired the gun and saved Beck and did all the things that I knew I had to. Beck would be dead if I hadn’t, I could be dead along with him. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty about it.

It doesn’t change. It won’t change. I don’t know how to make it change. I don’t know what to do, or who I want to be, but I don’t want to be someone who’s so consumed with vengeance that he’ll sacrifice others for his goals. I can’t be that.

And as the broadcast finished I felt the word traitor rip through me and tear me apart. The word echoed through the halls and I could do nothing but keep walking. I found another hallway, another floor, another basement sublevel, and more stairs that lead down. And I kept pushing, kept going, trying to make the word go away.

Traitor screamed and bounced with each step, but all I could think about is the little girl who wore her hair like her mother until she was too afraid to, until the Capitol took that from her. She never liked being compared to Katniss. When she was little she wanted it, but as the interviews came rolling in year after year, she resented it.

And I resented the light that was stolen from her and Bas as the years went on, light to be replaced with anger and pain and fear. They heard the nightmares. They saw my paintings, try as I might to keep them away from it, they saw them anyway. It didn’t matter that they had watched the highlights and seen the real thing. I didn’t want them to know how much it haunted me. It’ll always haunt me, with more violence piling up to add to it.

I feel the chill of Thirteen creep in, making my bones ache even more. It’s colder here than it ever was in Twelve. And as I descend another level it only gets colder. It reminds me of winters in Twelve, of fireplaces and baking and happy moments where there was the chance to pretend that the Capitol wasn’t ready to make us pay the price for our happiness, for our defiance.

Bas liked the snow the best. He used to eat more of it than he would use to build a snowman, until he figured out that making the snowman was more fun than eating it. When he got older he would throw it and laugh, big and loud like there was nothing that could ever destroy it or him. He’ll never see another snowfall. He’ll never get to experience the cold or make another snowman, even though he hadn’t made one in years, the chance was taken from him.

Ivy wasn’t a fan of the snow and ice. She has good balance but still it made it harder to walk. She loved climbing and the snow made it harder to do that too. She used to hide in the trees when she and Bas would play hide and seek, he called it cheating, and she called it an effective strategy.

In another world it would be just a game. But in this one, with all that it gives and takes, it’s never only that. It’s all learning and planning and training towards the real Game, the one that means life or death. Maybe they didn’t realize then or maybe they did, but I saw the light fade, the innocence disappear, and things that should have been fun no longer were.

And now there isn’t even a District to go back to, not much of one anyway. And everyone cries out for war, for bloodshed, for vengeance and I would be justified in asking for it too. In asking for someone to pay for my son’s death and for whatever is happening to my daughter, but it’s not the right thing, it’s the easy thing.

It’s easy for me to give in to my pain, easy for me to go along and call for war, call for a fight. It was easy to play along before or easier once I got used to it, to quell those hopes of rebellion, but now, now I know I can’t just do the easy thing. Not anymore.

Ivy needs to be safe but I can’t sit by and let things happen. Snow won’t just stand by and hope for people to back down, but killing thousands doesn’t feel like the right thing. The smart thing, the hard thing, would be to negotiate, to talk, to come to an agreement. There must be some way to move forward, to try to work together to stop more violence before it spreads.

But power consumes, it’s greedy and destructive, and Snow won’t give it up, not willingly. I know this. I understand this and I know that he should pay for what he’s done, that things that happened are meaningless without it. But there has to be a better way.

I’m in my own war with my morals and my desire to remain myself even when I’m losing everything. I know the answer is to fight for it and I will fight, but I can’t live with the blood on my hands that doesn’t need to be there, that isn’t justified in being there.

“Can I help you?” I hear a voice ask, a guard decked out in Thirteen’s muted colors, a band on her arm indicating her rank and station. She stands before a locked door, a red light coming from under it.

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking around. I wasn’t really sure where I was going, but I didn’t think I would find anyone down here, “I was just…thinking, I’m…where am I?”

She hesitates before recognition crosses her face and she knows who I am, “Intensive healing,” she says her voice wrapping around the words like it’s a joke, an omission of truth.

“But you can call it Hell,” Haymitch’s graveled and aggravated voice echoes from underneath the door.

“Haymitch?” I ask as I approach the door. The guard watches me, tension written all over her raised shoulders and narrowed eyes. She steps aside anyway, the tension never leaving.

“Has it been so long you don’t recognize my voice?” And there’s a tone of pain, an ache and edge in his words.

“How are you feeling?” And I hear a laugh from the other side of the door.

“How do you think? How’s your wife? Happy I’m in here?”

“She’s not unhappy,” I state trying to ignore the cut through my stomach at the thought of Katniss. And it hurts a lot more than it should, like an absence that will never fade, a hole in my gut that can’t be filled.

And she says she doesn’t blame me, she says she doesn’t, but I blame me, and I know she blames herself. And I can’t be what I need to be if I hold onto this guilt, if I keep expecting to wake up and be surrounded by my two kids, their tiny hands and smiles telling me it wasn’t real, that there are no Games, that we’re happy and together and whole.

I know she can’t help me when she has to be the Mockingjay and I can’t help her do that if I can’t help myself.

“And you?” Haymitch asks, “How are you doing?”

“Snow has Ivy doing broadcasts,” I say and I recount the message, every detail of it and the word traitor radiates through the halls and off the guard’s quiet stare. I feel the tension in my muscles, telling me to walk away from it, to run from it, but I have to face the word, I have to face all of it.

“At least we know she’s alive,” Haymith retorts, burying the edge in his voice, another wave of pain burning through it.

“I know the things they can do in the Capitol, things they’ve done to Victors, the Avoxes, there’s worse things he can do to her than just make her stand in front of the camera,” my voice rises and fades with the panic and dread in it, each vision of what Snow can do to Ivy worse than the last.

I see her bloody and broken, tortured and scarred, healed for the camera and destroyed the next day. I see Snow holding an auction, selling her to the highest bidder and then the next highest and so on and so forth. I see her being shown images of Bas, of Twelve, until she breaks and says what they want her to and then they cut out her tongue. They bury her alive and show it on camera for Katniss and I to watch. They set her on fire. They hang her from the mansion. It goes on and on and I can’t make it stop no matter how hard I try.

“Snow needs her and the public loves her. He’s not stupid, he won’t risk losing her regardless of how much he hates you and Katniss. No, the goal is to hurt you two. She’s just a tool for that.”

“And what happens when she’s not useful anymore?” I ask, my hands starting to shake. I dig my nails into my palm to try and get it to stop, hoping the physical pain will somehow quiet the ache in my mind, focusing me like the cold did.

“You better hope we win before then,” Haymitch says with a grim clarity.

I turn as I hear heels clicking down the hall. The guard straightens and I turn to see Effie and Plutarch walking towards us. Somehow she’s designed her outfit to be more like a dress rather than the work outfit we’ve all been saddled with. She smiles as she sees me.

“Keeping our friend company,” she tuts and I back away from the door.

“Oh no. Do me a favor, don’t let her talk at me, if you can cover the bottom of the door that would be great,” Haymitch groans and Effie raises a brow as she hands a paper over to the guard.

The guard reads it and nods, taking a key from her belt and unlocking the door. She opens it and I get my first view of Haymitch. He wears a white knit shirt and pants and there’s sweat dripping down his face, the red light giving off a heat that feels sweltering compared to the cold down here.

He steps out and I notice he’s not wearing shoes. His breath clouds in the sublevel, a steam coming from the room behind him. The cold hits him at once and he folds his arms into himself, trying to hold onto the warmth. Plutarch holds out a pair of clothes, grey like all the rest, and Haymitch rips them from Plutarch’s hands like an animal starved for food.

“You mind giving me a minute back in the box before you say whatever you’re going to,” Haymitch waves his hand in front of Effie, pulling the door closed as he gets changed. When he steps out again his color still hasn’t returned but he looks a little more like himself.

He holds his arms out, staring Effie down, “Alright, go ahead.”

Her raised brow, still holding strong, lowers and her lips curl into a smile, “You look,” she glances him over or rather, more like scans him with her eyes, taking in every detail like she’s committing it to memory before she says, “Terrible.”

Still, there’s a tone of amusement and happiness in her voice, like she’s glad to see him. He smiles at her words, a real genuine one, and it’s one of the few that I’ve seen from Haymitch. He notices me staring and locks the smile away but it’s too late, we’ve all seen it.

He clears his throat, “You breaking me out?”

“We need your help,” Plutarch says.

“Of course you do, let me guess, the Mockingjay,” Haymitch responds and Effie nods. He grunts, “She’s still no good at lines, huh?”

“She’s…no she’s not.” Effie looks pointedly at me, turning her attention and with a sharp tone asking, “And where have you been?” And all at once I feel like that sixteen year old kid in the Games all over again, her leading me around as I was guided and told what I needed to do. She cared, in her way, and tried to help despite her frustration at us. She cares for Ivy just as Haymitch does, she cared for Bas and he acted like he didn’t return the sentiment, but he did. She did what she could, prepared them when Katniss and I couldn’t, being pragmatic and practical with what the Capitol expected and how to react to Caesar. And I noticed it a lot more as the years went on, the toll it was taking, how each reaping day her hand would hesitate just a bit, afraid the next name she read would be Ivy or Bas.

I saw that fear come true the day she had to read their names, when they were the only ones in the bowl, and there was no way around it, no hope for a volunteer, no chance that they wouldn’t be picked.

She knows, better than all of us, how appearances are important, how they are just as lifesaving as a weapon in your hand. I know how words work, how they can change and shape the thoughts in people’s mind, but she knows how the first impression is just as important as what you say.

She taps her heel, still waiting for my response, for my excuse but I don’t have one.

“I was…walking,” I say lamely, my voice faltering.

“Walking?” She questions and she lets it slide, “It’s no matter. I’ve found you now. And we could certainly use you.”

I don’t argue even as she pulls my arm and we’re all following her, even Plutarch, too afraid to get in her way. Or maybe it’s practical, maybe he knows that she’s more useful and we’re willing to follow her over him. Regardless, it doesn’t matter, and she doesn’t let it matter. She just guides us to an open theater where there’s a screen for a backdrop and Katniss stands in the center. She wears a black uniform that seems to shine under the lights. It’s sleek with what looks like wings on the back, and as I step closer, I see the Mockingjay pin attached. It’s a new one, not as worn as the old one, black like the uniform, but still there, still visible.

Her eyes find mine and I feel the air leave my lungs. I feel like apologizing, like falling over myself but her look disappears and there’s a kind of sadness in it, a pain that mirrors my own. I can’t go to her, I can’t be like I was, neither one of us can. We can’t pretend it didn’t happen and we can’t pretend that the Capitol didn’t make us get married. But we also can’t pretend that we don’t love each other, because I know her and I know she does, and I know how I feel, but there’s a wall between us now, a pain that breaks into a chasm and we can fall into it or build a bridge and cross, but right now we’re at an impasse and there’s no solution.

Effie scans me over and I can feel the hairs on my face scratching my hand as I run it over my chin. I don’t think I’ve shaved since leaving the Capitol. Effie shakes her head.

“You’re in no shape to be on camera,” she says to me. I turn to leave, ignoring how Katniss watches the floor, like she can’t look at me any longer, but Effie grabs my shoulder, “But that doesn’t mean you can’t help.”

Katniss stands in the theater as we go behind a glass window, a screen on the wall, the technician plays the previous version of the propo and there are no words to describe it outside of fake and bad. It reminds me of the early speeches, the ones she would read from the cards, trying to sound convincing but failing at every syllable.

“That’s how a revolution dies,” Haymitch says and I hate to be the one to agree with him but I am.

We make our way to a meeting room where Coin sits with Gale. They shove plans aside, Haymitch ignoring the way she regards him. There’s wariness in her eyes, like she’s concerned by him and maybe his personal habits have more to do with it than anything. But I recognize that same wariness when she looks at Katniss, like there’s something dangerous hidden there, a calculation and thought that she hides.

There’s a long silence as we wait for someone to think of something to do. There’s no way Katniss can do what she needs to from here, no way she can read lines and make everyone believe. Especially now, when Ivy is talking about standing with the Capitol and Katniss has been saying it for years before.

Haymitch takes a marker from Coin’s hand without asking and the same look crosses her face once again. Katniss sits on her own at the end of the table, while I find myself at the opposite end, able to look at her but distanced. The chasm seems to widen, ready to swallow me into the pit and the darkness.

“We can’t just feed her lines, no one’s gonna buy it and after Ivy, this has to be…it has to be right. You have to connect with people again,” Haymitch says as he looks at Katniss, she doesn’t respond, instead watching the table. He continues, tapping the marker against his chin, “When did Katniss connect with you?” He looks around the room, waiting for an answer.

I remember when we were in school, when I used to see her sitting alone or with Gale, and I feel that aching half flutter heartbeat start again just as it did when I was younger. I’m married to her, problems or not, and it still happens.

I don’t mention when I felt it, when I heard her sing, all those genuine moments we shared in private, those aren’t for cameras, those aren’t to be used to inspire others. But still, I find myself glancing at her, trying to hide the way she draws me in. And she doesn’t look back, she stares ahead, but still I watch her.

“When she volunteered for Prim,” Gale offers in a quiet voice, the first to speak up, and I nod along. That ripple was felt not just through Twelve but through the entire Capitol. It was an act of love, of pure love, and there was no way not to look at her and hear her screaming the words, “I volunteer,” and not see that.

“Burying Rue,” Effie states, “And the song.” She holds a hand to her heart at that like a viewer experiencing their favorite moments all over again.

“The berries,” I state, remembering how she was willing to take that step so that she wouldn’t have to kill me, so we wouldn’t kill each other. She saved my life. And this time she looks at me and that same look flashes in her eyes as it did then, that she wouldn’t let me die, that she won’t let me disappear.

“Her interview in the Capitol, after Bas…” I continue and there’s a solemn sadness to that. Haymitch nods and writes it on the board. There are more moments, how she acted in Twelve, and there are others, some that include me, like when she went to get me medicine as I lay dying in the cave.

“We have to remind people of this. Like it or not, we’ve got years to make up for. So what do these all have in common?” Haymitch asks, circling the moments. I cut Gale off before he has a chance to say it, because I know, I know it better than anyone. And I’ve always recognized the difference, after years of it, I can tell.

“They were real,” I say, “No one told her what to do or say. It was all her.” And I can’t resist looking at her again, my eyes feeling glassy, my throat drying up. She returns the look until she can’t watch me anymore, until the pain cracks through it and we have to watch the board.

“We need to make it real again,” Haymitch states.

“The front lines?” Coin asks, understanding where he’s going with it.

“It’s useless having me stay here,” Katniss argues and her voice is strong despite all of this, “I can’t remind people of who I used to be if I’m just reading lines again.” And sitting there in her uniform I imagine a burning banner behind her, a call to arms passing around us, but then I see the bodies piling up and I don’t know how useful it is.

“We put a team with her. I volunteer,” Gale offers and Coin seems to want to shake her head but can’t manage it. She lands on me, considering options and coming to a weighted decision. “We need to rally the support of the people. Do what’s necessary.”

Plutarch shifts and speaks up at that, “But we need calculated broadcasts just as much as we need actions.”

“You want me to stay here and say the slogans,” I state and both Coin and Plutarch nod.

“A war on two fronts, propos to hit both the hearts and minds of everyone. It’ll be like another Victory Tour, we go back to the start, do it right, this time with the right moments and speeches that Peeta can deliver from here. We edit it together. It’ll hit people where it needs to.” Plutarch writes his notes down as he says this, planning it all before it’s even been decided, but I suppose the second the plan was voiced, the decision was made.

And I can feel the chasm between Katniss and I expanding and growing as the distance widens, or rather, as the plan to widen it comes to fruition. She’ll be Districts and miles away and I’ll be here saying words and hoping it works. A war on two fronts. And if it’s going to help get Ivy back, if ending the war brings her home, then this is the fastest way to do that. Rally the Districts and finish this.

It’s not the easy thing, it’s the right thing.

“And what if she dies?” Coin asks.

“Make sure you get it on camera,” Katniss replies, her voice staying in that same strong tone. And Coin looks at me, ready for me to agree or disagree but I really have no choice in this. And there’s something else in the look, the same calculation applied to it, like she’s trying to plan for all my usefulness. A chill runs through my spine that I ignore and instead nod as I do what I’m asked and I agree.

This time it’s a real goodbye.

The hovercraft is loaded and Cressida and her crew are boarded and ready to go. She won’t stay for my propos, that’ll fall to another team. Someone else, some technician here will run the cameras and Haymitch and Plutarch and Effie will be there to direct me, the words already written. I have a solid enough crew here apparently and Katniss has always been and always will be more important, to me and to everyone else, to the entire revolution.

I think about her on the front lines, or wherever she will be. I’m sure they won’t send her into any battles, but there’s no way of knowing for sure. There will be danger, this much I know, as does she. No matter where she goes or what District it is, there’s going to be danger.

The plan is for her to visit a few and then come back and they’ll send out the footage while I do my work here. It could be days it could be longer, we’re not sure, no one is sure. They want to be certain the area is safe enough before they land so scouting could take longer than the actual footage.

And there’s always the risk they won’t come back at all. I remember Coin’s look towards me after Katniss said to make sure they get it on camera, and I’m not sure what I’m working out, but there’s more to all of it, to the look, to the planning. The wheels are turning but they can’t connect and they only spin faster as I think about Katniss dying out there.

All the years we’ve been together and I never really considered how it would feel to be alone, to have no one. I always thought of myself as alone or not needed, but to actually face that, to realize that I’ll be broken if she’s gone, that’s a sobering thought.

Effie told me to shave for the camera so I did. Katniss watches me, the black uniform seeming to shine under the lights of the hangar. I can’t bring myself to step forward, to try to cross the chasm, but somehow my legs do what my mind can’t think about and I find myself walking towards her. If I fall into the pit it’ll be well worth it.

I see her suck in a breath while she watches me and she takes a step forward as Gale passes her. Madge watches from the side and he’s all smiles for her despite the role of leadership he possesses. It didn’t take me very long to understand he was more than a Soldier but no one could name him. He must be part of some operations group, where they can’t give out titles. He’s too knowledgeable and too looked up to by other Soldiers to be anything less. What title he possesses I don’t know but he gives orders and others follow.

Katniss approaches like she does a deer in the woods, careful and quiet. If my back was turned I would never hear her. My steps are loud and out of control as they always have been and somehow it makes her eyes shine a little more.

We’re both shadows under the brightness of the hangar but as we get closer the light seems to invade us, closing the distance of the chasm between and giving us a rope to hang onto before we lose ourselves.

“Be safe,” is all I manage to say because I don’t know what else to. There are too many words and not enough at the same time and the conversation we had the night before is only the beginning.

She places a hand on my chin, her hand brushing against the smooth skin. “I kind of liked it,” she says and the warmth spreads through my heart and into my bones, blossoming into a small shy smile.

“I’m…I don’t know why I’m not good at this,” I say, “I’ve always been good at this.”

“Goodbyes?” She asks.

I shake my head, “Talking.”

“You’ll be good for the cameras,” she states.

“It’s not the cameras I can’t talk to.”

She nods, “It’s…I…” and she struggles with what she wants to say, what she knows she wants to say but can’t.

I stop her, understanding without her having to say it, “I know. I’ll be here when you get back.” And in that one sentence a part of myself returns, the one who knows what to say, who knows the right thing to say and what he means beneath all of it. Her eyes are burning against the light of the hangar and her hand holds its place on my cheek, warmth spreading from her fingertips into my skin, marking itself there like a scar. And there’s a bit of the old her in there too, like we’re finding ourselves again.

“Move out!” Boggs calls as he enters the hovercraft, “Everdeen!”

She flinches at the name, her eyes still watching me, “I thought…”

“It’s right,” I say, a smile appearing at her old name. “People should remember Katniss Everdeen.” I think about the wedding, how, even when we were happy, it was something forced upon us by Snow, and something we did to protect ourselves. I may have imagined marrying her but I never wanted it like that, I never wanted her to be forced to be tied to me and to have my name. “We weren’t…the Capitol took that from us.”

She nods and whatever guilt she may have had over it is gone in an instant. She shouldn’t feel guilty. There is nothing to feel guilty over wanting to rid herself of what they took. And that’s not just something they took from her, they took it from me too. I wanted to marry her and I wanted it to be happy and small with smiles and family and friends. I never wanted cameras or an audience or Caesar to be fawning over it.

This is the best thing, it’s the right thing. We need to start over.

Her hand falls from my cheek and there’s a hesitation, like she should do more or I should, but I don’t make the move towards kissing her and she doesn’t either. She backs up, still watching me and I raise my hand in a wave, trying to smile and commit her to memory. She won’t be gone forever, she won’t even be gone that long, I remind myself, but in truth, I don’t know for sure and neither does she.

She boards the hovercraft and, in a rush, she turns to look at me one last time as the door closes. The hovercraft takes off with an echo and a rush. I stand still, watching it disappear into the sky as the hangar shuts out the world behind it and I’m left in the chasm alone.

There’s a hand at my back as Haymitch presses my shoulder with his palm.

“Let’s get to work,” I say firmly, turning towards the interior of Thirteen, ready to do what I need to in order to get my family back.

 _“Two oceans in between us_  
 _And I wait for shore_  
 _There's a gate I see_  
 _There's a way for me_  


_Now this one sits here_  
 _And whispers things to me_  
 _Now I got the Devil inside_  
 _This one made a pig of_ me”

\- Ava - Famy

 


	6. The Rebellion: Defenses - Katniss, Beck, and Peeta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Gale have a long awaited conversation. Beck hears a familiar story. Peeta faces his demons.

Katniss –

I focus on the sound of turbulence, the occasional shake of the hovercraft as my eyes remain glued to the metal floor. We’re using an older model, one Thirteen has managed to keep together, but it doesn’t fly as smoothly as the others from the Capitol. The one we stole is being used to transport goods and medical supplies to the front lines. The Mockingjay and her propo team were given the hovercraft that could be spared, the oldest one in the fleet.

So it shakes. And every time it does I wonder if it’ll fall apart. I wonder what it would be like to drop from the sky towards the ground. Where would I land? Where would I fall? And if I died at the hands of Thirteen instead of President Snow…there’s no martyrdom to be made out of that, only tragedy.

It seems like everything I am is some kind of tragedy anyway. How appropriate would it be to die the same?

The uncertainty of the future, the family I lost, the husband I’m losing, all of it comes crashing at once. It’s like needles pushing themselves into my insides, stabbing and ripping me open for all to see.

The hovercraft shakes again, more violently this time. I have to grip the seat to keep myself in place.

The feeling of Peeta’s skin beneath my hand, warm and inviting, forces the needles to ebb off their assault for the moment. I imagine his face as I was leaving, the lines are deeper, his smile harder to find and when I do find it it’s not the same. It’s like his eyes, the light I’ve always found there is fading and he’s never looked so lost.

I know leaving is what I have to do. Ivy needs to be saved, the rebels need to win, and they need the Mockingjay to give them hope. It falls to me to do what I have to and I have to save Ivy. If it’s the only thing I do, if it’s the only good thing I do, it’ll be worth the pain and suffering.

If only whatever fight I have in me could bring back the dead.

I think of Bas. I think of his face and his dying breath. I see the rain wetting his hair and washing the blood away like the Gamemakers themselves felt guilty for the sin. And they should have. They all should have.

There’s a hole in my heart where my son should be. The piece of me that I gave to him the day he was born eliminated when he died. For years I’ve had to watch the Victory Tour come to town and see the winning Tribute step on the stage to say their empty words about fighting hard and honoring the District. Even when I was on my own Victory Tour and I said the words, I never understood. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like to be on the platform, a picture of your dead child above you, listening to those words. And when I did try to imagine it, when I felt the loss of Rue, not as strongly as her own aunt, the weight fell on my shoulders. But I couldn’t know what it really felt like. Now, I do. Now, I understand too well the feeling of the missing piece.

For the first time I think about what would have happened if the Games had been allowed to finish. Would I have lost Ivy too? Would she have won as she said in her interview? Could she have turned around and killed Beck just like the Careers would do to their allies?

I would have had to travel the Victory Tour with her while she said her empty words and pictures of the dead watched us. We would have all had to look at Annie Cresta, the only one allowed on the platform, while Beck’s face stared. We would have come home and there would have been an empty room where Bas should have been and Ivy would have been given her own house with her own empty rooms to hide in.

I knew it was a possibility going in. I knew they both wouldn’t survive. I just never imagined what it would feel like when it happened. And the only other person who understands can’t talk about it. Neither one of us knows how to talk about it. There’s no way to describe the feeling and there are no words for losing your son. They call people with dead spouses widowers. They call children with dead parents orphans. They don’t have words for parents with a dead child. They don’t have a word for me and Peeta.

The hovercraft shakes once more. I glance over to see Cressida watching the roof like she’s expecting it to rip off at any moment. Pollux signs something to his brother, Castor, and they both laugh.

Castor notices me watching, “We’ve never seen a hovercraft this old. It’d be funny if it killed us instead of the Capitol.”

I nod, “I was thinking the same thing,” and Pollux smiles wider.

“He thinks you’re pretty,” Castor tilts his head towards his brother, who looks away as his cheeks redden.

I can’t help but smile at that, “I feel old.”

“We’re older than you,” he says with a smile. “He can still think you’re pretty.” Pollux looks back and nods in confirmation.

“Thank you,” I answer. The hovercraft shakes, lesser than before, “Do you really think it’ll fall apart?” I ask.

Castor shakes his head, “It’ll hold. It’s beat up, sure, but it’s still good. It still works. It’ll keep us alive.” He looks at me and I don’t think he’s talking about the hovercraft anymore. He’s talking about me. I decide I like him and Pollux and I’m glad they’re the ones filming me.

Gale braves the turbulence and sits across from me. “We should be there within the hour.”

“Which District is first?” I ask.

“Eight is recovering from an attack so it’s the safest right now.”

“You could have just said Eight, Captain.”

He smirks, “Sorry I didn’t tell you. It was part of the…” He shakes his head, like he’s not sure he should be telling me or not. His shoulders drop and he gives in, “It was part of the team I was on. No one’s rank was made public to Thirteen outside of a few people. That way, if the Capitol ever found out who we were, they wouldn’t know who to target.”

“What team was that? Operation Castle?” I ask, remembering Coin’s words.

He nods, “Part of it.”

“What was it? Why could it still be useful?”

He sighs, “I can’t tell you. It’s need to know and right now you don’t need to know.”

I sit back in my chair and I understand this is who we are now. We aren’t the kids in the woods trying to feed our families. He’s got his secrets. He’s got his war and I’ve got mine. In another life maybe I could have loved him as more than a friend. But I know, even as I think it, that it’s not true. I could have been happy with Gale but I wouldn’t have truly loved him. Not like I love Peeta, not like I need Peeta. And I don’t know what prompts the thoughts, what makes me imagine that life, maybe I wouldn’t have known the losses I feel now or maybe I would have. Choices can’t be changed only learned from and I’ve learned that Peeta was always going to be the one I loved. No matter the life, no matter the future, Peeta is the one.

“What happened? How did you get here?” I ask and it’s a story I need to know. How he made the decision. How he knew it was real. I need to know it all.

He runs his hands over his chin, resting his elbows on his knees. He takes a long time to put his thoughts together. I wait with a practiced patience from years of hunting.

He lifts his head and takes a deep breath, beginning, “You remember after you won.”

“Vividly.”

“You remember people hoping, fighting…”

“I remember you wanting to be one of them. And I remember you telling me over and over how I was failing them. You don’t need to remind me.”

“Sorry.” He swallows, “I was angry. I felt like nothing was being done and every time I went into the mines I felt it more and more. I was gonna die down there. Rory and Vic were gonna die down there. If I had kids who didn’t die in the Games, they were gonna die down there. It wouldn’t change. So I had to do something. I had to try.” He rubs his hands together, trying to warm himself in the cold of the hovercraft.

“Do you remember when we talked to those people running to Thirteen?”

I nod. “That was around my Victory Tour.”

“For some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about them and about running. If Thirteen existed I could find them, if they didn’t I could live in the woods. It was a story worth chasing because it was better than what was happening. I didn’t want to leave my brothers and sister behind, but they didn’t need me to stay. They weren’t in the Games. They were as safe as they could be. Rory and Prim were getting closer and I wasn’t gonna tear him away if he could be happy there. They weren’t like me. They tried, but they didn’t see things like I saw them.”

“I didn’t either.”

“But you understood things more than I did. You saw things I didn’t. I can’t know what you went through but I can understand why it was safer for you to do what Snow wanted. More so when you had Ivy and Bas.”

There’s a flash of pain at Bas’ name. The needles return, freshly stabbing at already open wounds. A solemn expression crosses Gale’s face at the names.

He clears his throat, “I didn’t want to leave Madge behind. I didn’t want her to think…but I didn’t know how to do it, how to run without...” His voice lilts, like a light breaking through the darkness, “And then the mine collapsed, like it was fate, like it was an answer. I don’t know how but I kept breathing and I climbed and I got out. I was farther away and no one saw me and I just…I just walked into the woods.” He splays his fingers out on his knee, like he’s remembering the moment. His fingers curl and uncurl as he stretches them out.

“I had a letter I was starting, something I was writing to try and tell Madge…whatever I wanted to tell her. Half of it was trying to convince her to come with me, the other half was me saying goodbye. I didn’t know what I wanted to happen, but I left the letter for her. I waited just outside, far enough that you couldn’t find me but close enough to find her. And then she showed up. She read it and she came with me.”

“And you found Thirteen.”

“I was surprised, I don’t think she was. She always said how she thought it was odd they used the same footage every year, but…yeah, we found it. And they had a military. They had a school. They had a life fighting for something or trying to. They’re sitting on missiles and bombs and the Capitol leaves them alone because of it. They don’t worry about the Games but they’re still trying to do something to make it better. I worked my way up. I helped make plans. We’ve been preparing for a war just waiting for the moment to strike.”

I swallow hard and wait for him to continue as I try to ignore the fevered pride that comes when he talks about Thirteen and how important he feels there. “Why did it take so long? It couldn’t have been because of me.”

He shakes his head, “Coin wanted to strike, but you can’t just bomb the Capitol and expect the Districts to follow you. It’s just another fear tactic and they would see it like that. Thirteen becoming the Capitol, the Capitol becoming Thirteen, it would all be the same thing in their eyes. Coin doesn’t want that, she wants a democracy,” he says with a certainty and the pride returns, “We tried to prepare a surgical strike, a way to put the right people in leadership positions and eliminate the threats. But it wouldn’t work. It couldn’t without Snow knowing or without contingencies taking place. So we were stuck. Waiting.”

He smiles, “And then you made your speech after Bas. Then the real you showed up again and we all knew the waiting was about to end.”

“I don’t even know who the real me is anymore,” I admit and I truly do feel the years weighing on me. I do feel old.

“You’ll find it again. It’ll be harder, but the Districts need you, we need you, Ivy…”

“Don’t,” I warn, “I know everyone needs me, but they can’t…they look at me and her like we’re traitors.”

“But they’ll realize you’re not. They’ll understand and they’ll see you again.” He stares me down like he’s begging me to believe it, but I can’t. I won’t until I see it for myself.

“Thank you for telling me the truth,” I say and he nods, sitting back in his seat, our conversation over.

“You never had kids?” I ask.

He shakes his head, “I was too busy trying to start a war.”

“You still could. I know you wanted them.”

“Not in this world I don’t.” He looks pointed at me and I remember our conversation in the meadow, when I would repeatedly say how much I didn’t want kids, how much he did if he didn’t live in Twelve. And it wasn’t my choice to have them but the love I feel for them is a choice. And I’m realizing now that the choice to love them has always been to love even if it meant distance, even if it meant not letting them believe I did.

I love them.

The admittance of it to myself has never been easy and it’s even harder now when they’re not here with me. I love them. I love Peeta and the crushing acceptance of it seems to turn the needles to razors that flay every part of my soul.

I try to think of the moment when I knew and I ignored it. It’s not the nights he would chase away my nightmares. It’s not the day he threw me the bread or when we were in the cave or on our Victory Tour. It isn’t a big moment. It’s just a bunch of small ones. A smile. Baking me something extra that wasn’t going to the bakery. The quiet moments where we would just sit in silence, where he would show me a painting or I would watch the fire. The nights where we would find ourselves tangled in sheets and one of us having to get up to a crying infant or a scared child.

I want that back. I want it all back. If I could do it over I would do it better. I would march to Snow’s mansion and kill him where he stood just to have those happy moments and know that I was happy.

The engines slow. The hovercraft makes its descent and the shaking stops. I remember Castor’s words. It’s old but it’ll hold. I’ll hold. I’ll make it through. I’ll see this to the end. I’ll be whole again or as whole as I can be. I’ll tell Ivy and Peeta every day how much I love them. I’ll make sure they know it better than I do. I’ll apologize to Bas for it and that space in my heart will be my reminder to never not say it again.

They’re going to know. The whole world is going to know and nothing will stop me from telling them. Not the war. Not President Snow. Nothing.

I’m going to win this for them. For Bas who will never see it. For Ivy who will come home. For Peeta who will find peace. I’m going to win this for my family.

Beck –

I lie in the hospital bed watching the ceiling while seconds turn to minutes and minutes become hours. The blanket scratches at my skin. The wound on my stomach aches. Ripping the stitches hurt but healing and re-healing is worse. I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but somehow, it’s worse.

It was stupid to go. I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have…I don’t even know what I wanted to find. I still don’t. But it was something to do. It was something to keep myself from doing this, lying in a hospital bed waiting for the moment when I’m allowed to leave.

My mother and father sleep in shifts now, the two of them taking turns watching me while the other goes to get food or take a nap. Sometimes they’re both in the room. Sometimes there’s only one of them. It’s clear they made this plan in the few moments I managed to fall asleep.

I should be grateful. I should feel loved and protected, but it just makes me angry. And yeah, if they weren’t watching I would try to leave again. I would walk right out of here in a second. But just because they’re right doesn’t mean I can’t be mad about it. It also doesn’t mean I still don’t feel guilty for it.

I remember my mother pushing me back onto the bed, the fear in her eyes at the thought of loss. And I kept fighting against her, kept trying to be somewhere else. And then the guilt took over with the pain medication and I fought sleep for hours until I couldn’t fight anymore.

It’s been two days since then and I haven’t managed to say a word outside of the occasional grunt.

There’s a pain in my stomach that doesn’t come from the wound. A deep seeded ache that spreads and bruises along my heart. I don’t fully understand it. I don’t understand a lot of things, but it makes my stomach twist into knots that hurt just as bad as the sword that went into my side.

I feel the heat of fire licking at my face. I feel lips on my own that taste sweet and burn just as much as the fire. I watch a fading shadow run into the woods while the Arena falls apart. If I had just been faster, if I had been stronger, maybe I could have made her stay, maybe she would be here.

No one has blamed me, no one has said it was my fault, but we all know it was. I know it was. I should have known where Victoria was going to swing. I should have avoided the sword. I should have stopped Cain. I should have been the Career I was supposed to be and not felt a damn thing.

That’s always been my problem. I felt and cared too much to be a good Career. Even before I aged out of the reaping I knew I wasn’t going to be able to fall in line with the others around me. Oh, I had the skills. I had looks that could turn Capitol heads. I would have been a great Victor. But I wouldn’t have made a good Career.

I can’t be cold. I can pretend, but I’m not cold, and that lie wouldn’t have lasted long enough in the Games to be useful. The other kids around me noticed my weakness even if they didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to. Awkward silences and shared glances said it all, only growing worse as the years progressed. I didn’t care. The ones who mattered never shared the glances and the ones who didn’t thought I was lesser because of my mother, like I was somehow unworthy to be the child of a Victor when that Victor was crazy. In the early years I tried to show them, tried to prove myself. Then I realized I had no one to prove anything to but me.

That is until the Games came calling and then I had to prove to the Capitol I was worthy of something. But I was prepared. I was trained. I was better than they thought I could be.

When I would go to training the others put more effort into it than I had to. It wasn’t just natural skills, though I did have those. I had my own training outside of school. I had my father showing me what to do on cameras where he had to play his part. I had my mother burying truths in a larger act of madness so that we could go unnoticed. I had my experiences with two Victors for parents to guide me, to show me what winning meant and how to hide the fear and pain of it. The first thing I learned was how to put on a mask. I spent years honing that skill and kept it going even after Reaping Day was no longer on my mind.

And then the Quell and the reaping came for me with a vengeance and I was glad my skills hadn’t faded. The interviews were nothing. The chariots were nothing. I could handle it all and I would come home. It was easy. It could be easy. I would make it through. I was prepared where they weren’t. I was the son of two Victors and the fact they didn’t know it put me at an advantage. I didn’t matter and I played the part too well.

The real Careers couldn’t break the mask. They thought I was one of them until I wasn’t. Minnow knew, or she knew that the stone around me would crumble with enough time and force, but it would take a lot of time and a lot of force and she couldn’t break it. No Career would break it. I was the bastard son of Annie Cresta, the Mad Girl from Four. That was all I was to anyone who didn’t care to look beyond the name and the persona I built for the world around me. I was the angry teenager, the petulant child, hungry for fame and to get his family’s honor back. And everyone who mattered believed it.

But Ivy Mellark from Twelve tore through that mask like it was made of paper. It took years to build and seconds to be destroyed. And it left me reeling, cut open, literally and figuratively, and I can only blame myself for not being stronger, for not making that mask better.

Maybe it’s not the mask. Maybe it’s not weakness. Maybe I was just waiting for someone to see through it, to not see the Bastard Son or the willing tribute. I wanted someone to see me. No title, no name, just me.

And if anyone could understand unwanted nicknames and masks, it was her. The Princess of Panem. The Daughter of the Star-Crossed Lovers. Every line she gave to Caesar was another layer added to that persona and nothing more. I have to believe that. I do believe it. It’s what I would do if I were her. It’s what would give me the best chance to make it.

And I broke her mask too, whether either of us realized it at the time or not, something happened. She opened up. I saw the real her and she saw the real me and it was the only choice to make at the time, the only choice that mattered.

I was the Bastard Son and now there’s no title I need to hide behind. I have no nickname or mask and I don’t know what to call myself. A liability. Stupid. Angry. There’s a war going on across the country and I’m just lying in bed and I hate every second that ticks by where I’m not doing something.

A part of me wonders if I should be in the Capitol. If, in some twist of fate, my father had claimed me publicly and everyone treated me differently when the cameras came rolling in and I was swallowed by adoring and fawning fans.

It isn’t a new thought but it’s one I haven’t had in a while. I only ever asked once and the response was my father almost falling apart and my mother explaining that it was safer for me, it was better. And then she mentioned Ivy Mellark, and how, at birth, the entire country knew her name and was already waiting for her Games. There had been a sadness in her voice when she spoke about Katniss and her family. I learned to understand the broadcasts, to realize who they were meant to torment and what they were building around Ivy and Basil Mellark even when Bas did everything he could to respond as little as possible.

It could be me in the Capitol. It could be me on the cameras. But I don’t matter. Not to Snow. And I’m relieved to know I don’t even as the feeling of it is swept away by guilt. I shouldn’t be glad I’m here, not when Ivy isn’t, not when she’s suffering where she is and I get to lie in a bed.

Does she even know what her mother is doing? Does she understand what’s happening? Are they telling her? What are they telling her? I feel like screaming as the questions rage inside my head.

My hands clench at my sides. I close my eyes hoping I can force myself to fall asleep, but it doesn’t work. The only thing I see against the darkness is Ivy across from Caesar, smiling for the cameras and putting on the show.

The images don’t end there. The entire spectrum of the Games follows. Grover’s pale face as he died. Bas’ blood on the ground. Jabberjays flying overhead. The acid rain. I hear cannons and thunder and it goes around and around until it’s broken by the fading memory of a song. Ivy’s song. The only time I heard her sing and for the life of me I can’t remember the words just the tune, just her voice singing it.

I open my eyes again, letting out a frustrated breath as I try to remember the words but I can’t. I turn my head to see my father sitting in the chair beside me. He ties a frayed rope into a knot and then pulls it apart as easily as he put it together. His hands are dry and cracked, fingers red from hours of work and I wonder if he even feels the pain of it anymore.

I watch him tie and untie for minutes, absorbed in it as my thoughts of failure and masks falls away. He looks up when he catches me staring, putting the rope aside and pushing the chair a little closer to talk to me so I don’t strain to keep my eyes on him. The bed is raised enough that I can look around the room, but not enough that I’m really sitting up. It’s just another aggravating thing in a long list of grievances.

“How do you feel?” My father asks.

I shrug, or make as much of a shrug as I can.

“Still don’t feel like talking, huh? Look, you were the one who went out there and ripped your stitches, you could have been out of here a lot sooner if you hadn’t done that.” He sits back in his chair, keeping his eyes firmly on me like he’s waiting for a response.

“What would you have done?” I ask, my voice hoarse from disuse, cracking on the words I force out.

He shrugs, “I don’t know. Depends on the circumstances. If I had a good reason.”

“I saved someone,” I say in a breathy whisper.

“I know,” he replies with a smile, his hand landing on my forearm, “You could have died.”

“I didn’t think they dropped bombs.”

“But you had to think it wouldn’t be safe, not completely.”

I shrug again, this part of the conversation over. My mother has lectured me, my father has, I know it was stupid and I’m done talking about it. “Dad…the broadcast…” I swallow my words, the pain constricting my throat.

He looks down, sighing, “They’re doing what they think is going to keep people on their side by using…”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” I say before I find the thread of thought I want to pull on, “Would Snow…would they…behind the scenes…”

“They wouldn’t sell her,” my father states in a practiced, even tone. “She’s valuable and they wouldn’t risk anyone from the Capitol, whether they wanted her or not, they wouldn’t risk it.”

“But they could be doing other things. Things we can’t see.”

“I’m sure they are,” he admits, “But they still need her for the cameras.”

“They wouldn’t risk it,” I repeat my father’s words but there’s no relief in it. He nods in agreement.

“Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw your mother? I mean really saw her.” My father leans back in his chair, putting on a happier tone than I can stand.

“Yes,” I reply flatly.

“It wasn’t at the reaping, though most people assume that. No, I was walking on the beach and she used to collect shells in this tiny little cove. These are the same shells that she used to make necklaces for people, still does…”

“I know…please…this isn’t…”

“Anyway,” he pushes on, telling the same story I’ve heard a thousand times, “This is maybe two years after I had won and everyone knows who I am. So I’m walking on the beach and I see the cove and there she is collecting all these shells. But I don’t go up to her, I can’t…”

“Because you thought she was pretty,” I finish.

He waves a finger at me, “She wasn’t just pretty. Her hair was everywhere, she had sand all over her legs and arms and she was carrying buckets of shells. She was the most normal person I had ever seen. I was coming back from the Capitol and everything there is…you know, and there was this relief in seeing someone so normal, doing something that just was. She didn’t see me but I saw her and I saw her again out and about. I liked to keep to myself. But for some reason I always found her in Four.”

“But you didn’t love her right away,” I state, trying to maintain the growing annoyed tone despite the warmth in my chest replacing the cold ache.

“No. I realized how much I wanted to see her around and every time I found her it was like a little spark to keep me going. Every time I was back from the Capitol I went to the cove. Sometimes she was there. Sometimes she wasn’t. Sometimes she saw me, she ignored me, but sometimes she saw me. A lot of times she didn’t. And this one time she smiled at me and that kept me going for weeks. Even when the Capitol trips got longer and they were at their worst, I remembered that smile.”

“And then she was reaped,” I state, the warmth fading as the feeling of my own reaping reminds me of what it’s like.

“And I learned her name and I decided she had to win.” His voice falters and he stops speaking for a long time before he says, “She saw something that others didn’t. She understood something about me that I didn’t. I thought I was broken, I thought there was something dark and ruined inside of me, but she never did. And after she won, after I talked to her and she saw me, really saw me…no, I didn’t love her right away. She crept up on me.” He smiles and I see his eyes are glassy, tears ready to fall.

“And the reason I told you this story again is because I think you understand it a lot more than you did before.”

I swallow my own rising emotions as I try to keep my tears at bay, “I don’t really know her.”

“But you saw her and she saw you. And I think the reason you went to Twelve is to try to understand her a little more, to learn as much as you could, because you might not see her again. I’m sorry that this is happening to you. I’m sorry that you had to go through the Games. I hate every moment I can’t make the pain go away. But I want you to know I can understand it. I can talk to you about it. Because I know what it’s like to want to know someone, to want to love them, and to wonder if you will never get the chance.”

“You got the chance,” I break.

He nods, “I did. And you might get the chance too. But you won’t if you go out and almost die, or never heal. And if you ever do anything like that again, whether I understand why or not, I promise you I will tell that girl every embarrassing detail of your childhood, so much so that she will run away as fast as possible.”

My mouth twitches into an involuntary smile as something like hope and laughter bubbles through my chest.

“You know the best part about my story,” my father says, waiting for me to ask.

“The ending?”

“It hasn’t ended yet,” he corrects, “No, the best part about my story is you. I have never loved anyone as instantly as I have loved you. Not even your mother. And that’s saying a lot because I love her a whole lot.”

“I know.”

“Like a lot a lot.”

“Dad, I get it.” And my crack of a smile spreads into a full one which causes my father to smile back.

“That’s what I wanted,” he says, satisfied, patting my head and sitting back in his seat, “Now you should sleep before your mother comes back and asks why you aren’t sleeping. Or tries to yell at you again for running off.”

“Do you really think Ivy’ll be…she can come back?” I ask, glancing to my father before returning to looking at the ceiling.

“Honestly, I don’t know, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t hope. Go to sleep.” I hear him pick up the rope again. I stare at the ceiling as I listen to the rhythm of knots being tied and pulled apart.

Peeta –

I stand with the rest of Thirteen as we watch the first cut of the footage from the bombings. Katniss stands before the remaining people of Twelve, shouting and looking every bit the rebellious leader they thought she could be. The District is on fire. She saves people from wreckage and helps the wounded. I’m there too but not so much as her. She’s the focus. She has to be the focus.

The broadcast airs and within the hour Coin tells me about District Seven fighting Peacekeepers. She follows it up with an expectation of my propo, something just as strong to follow.

I try to write something but nothing comes to me. I eat, all the while thinking about what to say but still I find nothing. I walk and no words come to mind. So I go back to the living quarters Katniss and I share, or used to share, we will share again…my living quarters for now. I lie down on the bed and try to sleep in the hope that I will think of what to say, but there’s only an empty static where my thoughts should be.

Ivy needs this. Katniss needs this. I can’t let them down. But it seems like that’s all I’m good for these days, letting people down. What would Bas think of me in this moment? What would Ivy think? Would they be disappointed if they knew? Would they wish for a different father, a better one?

I hear my mother calling me a failure, telling me I’m nothing but a screw up. I feel her palm against my face as she delivers the blow. My fists curl at my sides and I get out of bed only to pace around the room.

“You’re nothing but a waste, how did you even win? Oh that’s right, that girl saved you,” she tells me in the years that follow my victory. And I thought it would have made things better but it only seemed to make it worse.

“You’ll be a terrible father,” my mother’s voice mocks on the day she learns Katniss is pregnant.

“You’re weak.”

“You stupid boy!”

“You should have never won.”

My fists connect with the wall and it’s another release of violence I’ve had since all this started. I never used to hit things, I never wanted to. And even in the darkest moments of my nightmares I chose to create never to destroy. I knew the better outlet, the healthier one, but I don’t have it now. I don’t have any of it now. Not the strength. Not the will to find it. Not since Bas died, not since the 100th Games began.

Knuckles collide with steel in a flurry of pain that radiates through my wrist. I keep punching, even as my fingers bleed and the pain is blinding. Red stains the wall and each fresh stabbing ache sends a shockwave up and down my spine. The wall is my canvas, my fists the brush, my blood the paint, but the images won’t stop. There’s nothing that will make this stop. And then I start screaming, trying to drown out the voices in my head.

And then one cuts through, louder than my scream, louder than my mother.

“Peeta’s strong,” Katniss tells Effie years ago at a dinner table in the training facility. And the sack of flour comment follows but in this moment it feels like she’s talking to my mother, sending the hate filled speech out of my head as fast as it came. And it’s shocking how fast I no longer want to hit the wall. My fist stops, pressed to the wall and all I do is stare at the grey and red, there should be more color here.

We’re on the Victory Tour. Katniss asks me to stay while the train rattles on and I do. I don’t want to forget but she does so I keep my distance, but it breaks that night and I’ve never slept better. We talk about favorite colors as the days go on. I tell her about the paintings. I show her them and its how I get through it. It’s how I need to get through it again. She starts her mantra and she makes it through the days and nights.

I’m in the arena and Katniss says, “Together,” and we survive. I sit on the bed, my knuckles red and bleeding. I see the spots on the wall where I lost it, where I wasn’t me anymore. I’m not this. I’m not violence and fury. I’m a painter. I’m a baker. I’m a father. I’m a husband or…maybe not that anymore, but I’m something to someone. My mother doesn’t matter, nothing else matters.

“Together,” I hear again and Ivy is born, Bas is born, and I say we’ll see them through. We’ll make it through together. I repeat her words and it gives us both hope. Always I had said. I would stay with her always. It’s another promise I’ve broken. Maybe not completely, but it’s fracturing, it’s shattered and it will fall apart all too soon. But I can fix it. We can fix it.

Together.

I fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, “I’m not weak,” I tell myself. “I’m strong. I can lift a whole sack of flour over my head.” And I can do more than that but that’s what Katniss had said, that’s what she had noticed. And she told me about the bread. She told me what I gave her and it was more than just food, it was hope. And that’s when I think about what to say.

Effie paces around the large theater like room as I talk about hope. I talk about Katniss giving us hope. And it’s a small speech but it’ll do the job, especially after the footage. Effie shakes her head and I drop my arms, the paper with my scribbled notes crumbling in my hand.

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask.

“It’s too practiced,” Effie responds, “Peeta it sounds like the two of you from the Victory Tour. Like you’re holding something back. You’re better than that.”

“Maybe I’m not,” I state, “Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”

“You?” She retorts with a huff, “You, the boy who said, ‘because she came here with me’ and essentially dropped a bomb on the viewers. You’re definitely cut out for this.”

“That wasn’t…” I remember the moment and what I had intended to do. Raise up her profile, make them take notice of her, try to get sponsors, but there had been an honesty in it, enough of one that didn’t make it a total story to be fed to the masses. If only I knew the consequences it was going to have.

I still would have said it.

The people of Panem are used to slogans and crafted words. They don’t need those. They need real. They need Katniss giving them hope without me telling them to feel it. They need truth. They need my truth.

“I think I should just talk about what it’s like, the cameras, winning, the Capitol. They should know what they’re really fighting against,” I state.

“That feels a little more you,” Effie responds.

“I don’t know where to start,” I say and she smiles.

“Start with Katniss.”

I ignore the red light on the camera and take a long moment to think of the moments, the small ones, the big ones, and the ones that will matter to the people who see the propo.

“The berries. She just didn’t want me to die. We weren’t really in love, not then. We did it to survive, just like how we did most things.”

I talk about the wedding, I talk about the planning, how our lives were carefully put together, crafted by Snow to keep the rebellion in check.

“We couldn’t be more than the story,” I say after that section finishes up, “One day we got a letter…”

The message to have a child, that’s the hardest thing to talk about. I wanted kids. Katniss didn’t. I didn’t want them in the life we had to lead, but we had to have them. I try to keep the words measured, careful to state that we love them, we always loved them.

“I thought I was going to break Ivy the first time I held her. I wasn’t prepared for what I would feel, how much I would feel…and when we had Bas I didn’t think I could love more but I did…there was a moment I thought we might have a chance to be happy, where I forgot the roles we were being forced to play. The parts Snow was making us play.

“That’s what he does. He controls. He manipulates. And then he takes it away when he wants to. Freedom is an illusion,” I say to the cameras, ensuring they all know, that there’s something to grasp onto as the story continues.

“The thing is even when I knew this I could pretend I was happy, that we were a family. I love Katniss, I love my children. I loved my son, I still do.”

I go into the cameras, years and years of preparation and this feels like a confession, an airing of all the weights of my mind and soul. I spend hours talking and talking until my voice is raw.

“He put them in front of an audience to punish me and Katniss. Innocent children. And he’ll do it to your children too if he gets the chance. He’ll put them in the Games. He’ll laugh as they die. And that’s what you should be fighting for, that’s what we’re fighting for, our children,” I take a deep breath and find I have nothing else to say, “Stand with the Mockingjay. Fight for your future. For your children’s future…I’m done.” I wave my hand and the camera shuts off.

Effie resists clapping and I’m grateful for it. I stand and leave the theater, not offering any thoughts on edits or things to keep in or take out. It’s a lot. I’m sure half of it won’t even air but what matters, what’s useful, will be kept in.

I flex my still raw knuckles, the scabs and bruises providing a dull ache, as I walk through Thirteen. I feel lighter somehow, like I’ve exorcised some darkness from my soul to put the pieces back of who I used to be.

The loss stings, it’ll always sting, and the absence will be a ghost as the years go on, but I’m starting to accept it, to understand it.

Together, I think again. Together we can get through it. Together we can understand it and heal each other. Together.

I hear the Panem anthem play through the hall from some distanced place and my footsteps quicken as I follow the sound. I hear muffled speech coming from behind a closed door. When I open it I find myself in a room with a few tables and chairs. The only light comes from the screen where a presentation from the Capitol is playing. It’s not another interview and it’s not Ivy’s face I see first. It’s the Hunger Games museum.

The large marble building gleams against the larger buildings of the city. Its columns promise tales of sacrifice and honor, victory and glory. Outside of the main gate, right at the entrance there’s a fountain with a gold statue of the Panem symbol being held up by twelve hands. The camera passes over it slow enough to capture every detail.

There’s a crowd gathered in front, their usual Capitol attire even more pronounced. This is a big occasion and no one has carelessly put themselves together. President Snow waves to them as his granddaughter wheels him to the center of the stage that has been set up in front of the entrance. He wears a white suit and a gold lapel. And then I see Ivy to the side, a green dress on, smiling to the crowd who cheers for her. And there’s no falter to her smile, no hesitation, she just is and has always been, standing with the Capitol. But I know she can’t be choosing it, I know they must be threatening her, or doing something. She wouldn’t voluntarily choose them.

Cashmere is right beside her as are other Victors, most of whom are from One and Two. They’re dressed up just like the crowd. The museum dedicated to them right beside them. And this is their statement. This is what standing with the Victors and the Capitol looks like. A display of achievements, a box to be put inside where Snow can visit and remind everyone how much he owns you.

Snow looks ancient in the wheelchair, almost feeble and weak, as he coughs into a handkerchief. Reagan comes to his aid but he waves her off just as quickly as she arrives. The crowd is hushed and waiting, an awkward silence to them. Snow waits, staring around at the crowd and building upon the tension. A second later he lifts himself from the wheelchair in a slow, deliberate motion, rising to stand over the crowd. When he takes the three steps to the microphone, he’s met with proud applause and every thought of weakness is wiped from my mind, but I suppose that’s the point.

“As you know this is a place to honor greatness, to keep our Victors in our memories and to protect our strength. This year we didn’t have a Victor, but that doesn’t mean we don’t honor loyalty,” President Snow says, his voice echoing through the screen to sound like I’m right there with the crowd. He holds his hand out and waves for Ivy to step forward. She regards the crowd with a certain pride that I’ve never seen before in her and a cold sweeps up my spine. I’m reminded of the Quell announcement, like a swift kick to the stomach is coming.

Snow coughs into his handkerchief once again. Reagan is steady as she takes the cloth from him once he’s finished and he regards Ivy once again.

She smiles back, warm and welcoming as he speaks again, “And as we stand here today, on a day that will be marked with importance as the first of its kind, though no less than any of the other times we’ve gathered here before.” There’s a hush and whisper that falls through the crowd, an electrifying excitement and I know what’s coming. Everyone knows what’s about to happen and it’s a fear Katniss and I share, one we spoke of on the inauguration of the museum.

Snow waves his hands and the crowd falls silence, “I would like to state, by my decree, a new display will be going into our great museum. One for Ivy Mellark, Victor of the 100th Hunger Games.”

The crowd erupts, the applause deafening. The Capitol has always loved her. They wanted her to win. They wanted a winner. They expected nothing less but her and Snow knows it. A crown is placed on Ivy’s head to her practiced smile, and the gold glimmers in the fading sunlight of the Capitol.

Snow looks into the camera like he’s staring right at me and Katniss, like he knows just what he’s doing. And even if she’s not here with me I know we’re seeing and feeling the same thing. It’s like all the oxygen has left the room and there’s nowhere to go to find it. My stomach feels like lead boiling inside only to singe and destroy whatever I have left.

Ivy shouldn’t be standing there with him, given a crown and paying the cost. And Snow is doing it all to torment Katniss but it hurts me just the same. It’s why he built the museum, to remind us all just what we are to him. We’re his toys, his creations. He owns us and he’ll lock us up in a display for all to enjoy if it means keeping us in line. And now Ivy’s one of those displays, another toy he can play with first hand. She’s the Victor Child. The Princess standing with her crown and place in history and there’s nothing I can do but watch it all unfold.

Ivy steps up to the microphone, clearing her throat and speaking with ease, “I will try to do this title proud and I thank you President Snow, for your endless generosity in the course of my life.” It’s short and simple and it cuts right to the point. Everything I said before, about the false generosity, fighting for my children, it’s now become that much stronger and more difficult. It’s becoming a war of words between my daughter and myself and only one of us is going to win, not by a decree, not by default, but by fighting.

The broadcast fades with a message to expect more coverage of the celebration party at Snow’s mansion later tonight. My heart sinks further than I thought possible. So this is to be her Victory Tour. No stops. No Districts. Just Capitol elegance and pride. And it’s just what Snow wants it to be. A message for everyone watching that Ivy’s the one to follow, not the Mockingjay. She’s the smarter one, the better one, the example of what happens when you win, when you play by the rules.

You get the luxury if you pay the price. But I know she didn’t pay. This isn’t about her. Katniss and I are the one’s paying. And now that she’s been used as a prop, now that she’s been crowned the Victor, I don’t know how much more use she’ll have soon.

Her time is running out.

_“They’re never going to break me,_   
_They’re never going to change us._   
_This war is not on flesh and bone,_   
_this war wages in us._

_And it burns like a fire._   
_And it burns like a fire._   
_And there's a voice inside my head,_   
_and it's telling me to be brave._   
_When the darkness comes.”_

\- When the Darkness Comes by Shelby Merry


	7. The Rebellion: Empathy and Apathy - Beck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck decides his future in the war.

It begins like all the rest. Darkness closes in. Water chokes. Fire burns. Blood on my hands, blood staining my shirt as a sword rips through me. Ivy screams. Bas dies. Grover dies. Minnow dies. Stone, Victoria, Cain and Emery watch and wait and kill. The nightmares never change. Every damn night, the same damn thing, over and over and over until I wake up screaming, the ache in my side a reminder that I’m alive and in Thirteen.

Every night the same images repeat and repeat like I’m watching the Games instead of living them. That dream I had of Ivy on the boat, that dream I don’t dare say aloud, I’ve only seen it once. I don’t think I’ll ever see it again, real or otherwise.

Tonight begins no differently than any other. I hear cheering then it turns into the countdown and I’m running for my life. I feel the trident leave my hand and watch as it kills Trina before she can kill Ivy.

Ivy stares, her eyes wide, uncertain and she raises the bow. And I think I’ve made the dumbest mistake of my life until the arrow flies past me and kills August. I turn back as his body falls, the rock tumbling from his grip, blood leaking from where the arrow pierced his heart. I didn’t know him, I don’t really feel bad that Ivy saved me, but it’s just the beginning, the first body in a list.

I pull the arrow and when I turn back to Ivy she’s running far away. I don’t really know what makes me want to keep the arrow. I still don’t know why I kept it. Maybe I thought it was a peace offering, return it to her and earn her alliance, but that doesn’t feel like the whole truth. Watching it again, feeling it again, I find no answer. It’s just something I did without much thought, just as I’ve done a lot of things in my life.

When I retrieve the trident and step over Trina’s body, I wait for the shift, the change, the reality to turn to the nightmare beneath.

And it does. Right on queue.

Trina’s decaying hand grabs my ankle, nails digging into the skin beneath the fabric of my pants. Her eyes are gone. Her skin is like paper, sunken and thin, her teeth rotting and spilling dirt and blood as she speaks.

“Victor,” she screams, “Bastard. Murderer.”

I shove the trident into her skull, crushing her as I’ve done what feels like a thousand times before. The first time I had this nightmare I woke up right here, sweating and screaming to find one of my parents there to calm me down. Now, I’ve seen it so much it’s just another thing, another ghost to haunt me to my grave.

I walk forward, darkness colliding against me. It covers and chokes in a sweltering heat before a bitter cold and then I’m under water where I can’t move. I’m not strong enough to get us out.

But Grover is. Grover saves us.

We fall in a crashing wave into the quarry. Grover’s body stares at me, water leaking from his mouth as Ivy stands over him. His glasses are in my hands, his frozen eyes staring at me, burned into the lenses in a picture I’ll never forget.

The glasses shatter and a crack of thunder echoes across the sky. Flecks of red descend onto my skin, staining my open hands. The ground smokes and I look at Ivy, still standing over Grover but now she stares at me instead of him. Cain and Emery approach behind her but she doesn’t move, she just stares.

I try to shout to warn her but the rain chokes, the blood thickens. It covers my nose and my eyes and all I can see is red. Static fractures through my head as Jabberjays circle me, screaming and screeching, until it’s the only sound I hear. Minnow’s body joins Grover’s and then Bas follows and Ivy’s stare is hatred and pain and it’s directed at me.

Cain and Emery get closer, the thunder booming over the Jabberyjays, chasing them away. The blood begins to burn as Victoria, arrows sticking out of her from all sides, runs a sword across my stomach and the pain radiates through my body.

Stone laughs behind her, a hole in his chest where my trident pierced him. They both disappear and the rain keeps burning until it ends and there’s only smoke and fire around me. Around us.

Ivy stands before me and she looks different, she looks like she does on the cameras. She wears a dress. She’s cleaned up. There’s no wound or anger on her face. It’s like she’s not even there.

And this part is new. This hasn’t happened before.

“Ivy?” I ask, reaching for her wrist. She feels like ice in a deep cold, like she’s missing whatever it is that makes her warm and alive and real.

And then I remember this is a nightmare. Of course she isn’t real. It doesn’t make the image any less painful.

“Ivy,” I try again and I hope it might switch, that holding her will make it switch, that I’ll see the boat, that I’ll hear the ocean, something warm and safe.

But it never happens.

The smoke continues to surround us as the snaps and crackling of the fire burning through the factory echo. I hear Cain calling our names while Emery’s shadow circles, flashing across the walls like she’s in the factory itself.

Ivy steps forward and I try to take a breath but I only taste smoke as it crashes into my lungs and burns me from the inside out. And I think maybe I’ll remember something else, the fleeting feeling of her lips against mine bringing with it the crushing weight of what I can only describe as hope or maybe something more than hope. I don’t know.

But that doesn’t happen either. No, I’m not that lucky.

She brushes my hair back, running a cold hand down my cheek, letting it settle there. The ice floods through my body, drowning out the heat of the fire and stopping my heart. The only thing surrounding us is silence and its empty and cold, a terrifying and haunting quiet.

I try to move but I can’t. I try to speak but nothing comes out. And I hear a deep unsettling voice say, “Victor,” and I know it’s President Snow’s. I see the crown on top of Ivy’s head, glowing in the light of the fire that I can’t feel. When I try to breathe, nothing happens. I only choke on a flat, stale, air that never reaches my lungs. It’s all just…nothingness.

“You knew this was how it was going to end,” Ivy finally says and her voice remains even and composed, sparkling with ice.

And then she’s gone and the factory collapses. The flames and dust burning through me until I can no longer do anything but scream myself awake.

Breath crashes into my lungs so hard it burns, but it’s not enough air, there isn’t enough air in the world. I choke and try to force more air into my body but there’s no relief as the rapid beating of the machine beside me blares. The needles of the IV poke and prod and I feel a twinge of pain as my movement pulls it out.

Soothing hands fall onto my arms and settle. My mother stares over me wide eyed and terrified and on the verge of an episode of her own. I can’t breathe. I can’t focus. I can’t do anything but choke on the memory of smoke in my lungs and the feel of ice in my heart.

“Beck!” She screams as her nails dig into my arms to keep me in place. Her eyes close and she flinches and she’s hearing something that isn’t there and I can’t be the one that makes her fall apart. I can’t do that to my mother.

She fights it as hard as she can but I know she’s losing and I’m losing and it’s all too much. The Games took too much.

Nurses run in as the frantic beating of the machine continues and I see the flash of a needle but I can’t sleep again. I can’t see all that again.

The light is gone from my mother’s eyes and the medical staff is pushing her back but she’s fighting, she’s still trying to win against her demons but I’m lost to mine. There are louder footsteps that charge into the room, more frantic eyes and shaking hands and they pull my mother back and ground her in the moment. Her hands land on my father’s when he watches me struggle and shove a nurse away.

“Don’t make me sleep!” I shout through the choking breaths and my father puts one hand on my chest to settle me down. My eyes meet his and I plead, “Please, I can’t…don’t make me sleep.”

I cough and the beeping won’t settle down. My mother flinches at each repetitive screech of the machine and her hands go to her ears.

“Beck…you’re here…you’re safe…” My father tries, repeating my name over and over but I still can’t breathe and the nurses approach with the needle again.

I fight against the hold on my chest and my father holds up a hand keeping the medical staff at bay. And then my mother is back at my other side, guiding the nurse out of the room.

“He doesn’t need that,” she says through a gravelly voice, broken by some unshed emotion and buried pain.

“Close your eyes,” she tells me and puts her hands over my ears.

I don’t hear the machines. I don’t hear anything but the lack of air in my lungs. I feel dizzy, like I’m about to pass out. I’m afraid that if I close my eyes I will, but my mother leans close and repeats the muffled words and I listen. Against the darkness, with my parents keeping me in place, I can breathe again.

It takes a few seconds but my heart stops pounding, the blood doesn’t rush in my ears and I’m breathing normally. And I remember doing this for Ivy against the Jabberjays and she did it for me but the thought never occurred to do it for myself.

My mother removes her hands from my ears and I open my eyes. The room is quiet save for the steady beat of my heart. I feel exhausted like I’ve just run through all of Thirteen and the Arena. My mother looks tired too, drained. My father rubs his eyes as he removes the hand from my chest and I settle back into my bed.

And I hate this. I hate feeling like this. Weak. And they would never say I am but I feel it. I’m weak.

When all seems calm, or as calm as it can be, my father settles into a seat, his hands twitching but he doesn’t reach for rope. My mother remains standing beside me, her eyes lost even as they stare at me. My hand finds hers and squeezes. At the feel of contact, she blinks, smiling softly at me.

“I’m here,” she says though her voice still feels far away.

“I know,” I reply, “Thank you.” My throat protests against the words, burning as I force them out, my voice breaking and cracking. It feels like it does that a lot lately, that I can never speak like I used to and that I never will again. And once again I feel a weakness and weariness in my body that I hate.

I’m nineteen. I should be living my life. Enjoying my life. I feel too old and too young all at once. A child too afraid to leave his parents’ side, cared for by them, and protected. An adult who has seen too much, who has had too many years, and who is old and broken.

Hours pass. The nurses never return and I never face sleep. The next morning a new doctor named Aurelius comes in. He’s tall and keeps touching his nose before he writes notes on some paper. He tries to appear warm and concerned. I don’t feel like playing this game today.

“Can I have some time with Mr. Cresta, please?” He asks my parents.

“You don’t need their permission,” I protest, my bitterness breaking through my voice, “I can choose for myself.”

“I know,” Aurelius says, “I’m being polite.”

My parents glance at me, a concern passing over my mother’s features but they leave without a word. There’s a feeling of guilt that passes over me at the sight of them, slumping forward, eyes drained of energy. They shouldn’t have to worry about me like this. I should be better than this. Stronger than this.

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Aurelius asks and I want to laugh and roll my eyes but I don’t. I stay silent, pressed into my bed, my fingers drumming on the railing as I stare at the wall.

He repeats his question two more times to the same silence before he sighs, “I get it. You don’t know me. You’re thinking I can’t even remotely understand what you’ve gone through. And that’s true, I can’t understand. I don’t know what it’s like to be taken from my home, to be thrown into an Arena and forced to kill or be killed. I don’t know how it feels to grow up like you did. But I do know what it’s like to lose someone and to be haunted by your nightmares. And I know that not talking about it won’t make it better. And that ignoring it won’t make it go away. So I’ll be back every day to ask you how you’re feeling until you’re ready to talk.”

I stop drumming against the metal of the bed. “Why?” I ask, breaking my silence to which he smirks, writing something in his notepad.

“I’m a determined man…and I want to help.” He turns to leave but stops and glances back, “I’m going to recommend that they let you walk around Thirteen every day for an hour, depending on how that works out we can probably increase it to two and then so on and so forth until they release you permanently.”

I face him, the question going unasked.

He shrugs, “You need it.”

“Will the doctors let me?”

“I’m a doctor, technically, and it’s an hour. If you collapse, well…don’t collapse.” He pats the door frame on his way out, “See you tomorrow.”

Later in the day another doctor comes by and fits me with a walking IV bag and I’m given strict instructions to be back in an hour.

“That seems fast, is he--?”

“Mom,” I warn, hoping the please can be heard beneath the tone. She resigns and falls silent. I’m fitted with some kind of automatic wrist band. It monitors my vitals, making sure I don’t dip to a dangerous level and comes with a lovely alarm to warn me when it’s time to go back to my room. After that it’s just a matter of walking out, something I’m all too happy to do.

My legs shake slightly but with each step I keep myself upright, persevering through the weakness in my body. I have to show them I’m stronger than this. I want to be allowed out for longer. I have to prove that I’m capable of it. I have to endure whatever slight pain or discomfort I may have. I’ve survived worse. I can survive this.

I can do this.

My parents follow me to the doors of medical and I turn back. They’ve been beside me since I got here. I need space. All it takes is one look and my father seems to understand.

“We’ll be here when you get back,” he says with a warm smile but my mother doesn’t smile, she analyzes and watches, her eyes raking over every step I take, quantifying and calculating whether or not I’ve always walked this way, whether I’m in pain, ready to step in if she sees something that’s not right.

“I can handle myself,” I remind her. I try to smile to her but she maintains the expression, so I turn back to my hour of freedom. I hear the beep of the wrist band as I pass through the door of the hospital wing as time starts ticking down. It feels like I’ve always been living with a ticking clock, now I can see it.

I try to move quickly, thinking of what I want to do, where I want to go, if there’s anyone I want to see, but I can’t come up with anyone or anything. I’ve been in my own isolation for what feels like an eternity and I don’t really know what’s going on outside.

People rush through Thirteen following the schedules that dictate their lives. I wander, always aware of the time fading with each step. The IV bag hinders my movements, the wheels catching occasionally. I think about pulling the IV out and just going about my day but I remember the wrist band. I’m sure they’ve got that thing wired to warn them if I do anything that could endanger my health, which probably includes taking out the thing keeping me hydrated and stuff. So I don’t take it out, I just live with the annoying thing.

With forty minutes left I end up in Beetee’s workshop. I can see a bow inside a case and I have to stop myself from thinking about who it belongs to, who it should belong to. In another place I see two tridents and I know one is mine.

I hear a clatter and turn to see Springer, bleary eyed and frantic, trying to carry too many pieces of…well something. I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be.

“Stupid. Too much…Can’t afford to waste…” He picks up the items he dropped and puts them on a work table with an empty food tray and drawn plans and scribbled notes. The plans look like bomb designs, weapons, and a long list of codes and frequencies. He rakes through his hair as he takes apart some device.

I wonder if he’s even seen me. If he’s too lost in his work to notice anything around him.

“Springer,” I try, stepping closer to him, the wheels squeaking as I move.

“No talking…talking takes up time…” He rips a wire out of the metal box. “That’s yours.” He points to one of the tridents. “Take it if you want.”

“I’m not…I’m not fighting.”

“You will. Not now. Later.” He rips another wire and winces as he cuts his finger on the end of the copper. He pulls a box of bandages that’s been ripped open and stained with dried blood towards him. He wraps his finger in the bandage and I notice all the others that line his hands.

“I don’t think I can fight. I don’t think I’ll ever be able…” I stop myself, feeling the weight, feeling the weakness seep into my muscles all over again. I straighten. This is not the place for a confessional. Not when Springer rips his skin once again and wraps a fresh bandage, barely registering the pain as he continues to tear into the box. “Are you…what are you doing?”

“Working!” He slams his hands over one of the plans, the blood from the new cut dripping onto the paper. “Trying to help! I have to…I have to…it won’t work.”

“Springer,” I repeat, my voice calm and he looks up at me. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Takes up too much time. And I shouldn’t…I see it…” He rubs his bleary eyes.

I reach for the bandages and hand him another one. He takes it and I feel the callouses and healed scabs rough against his skin. He covers the newest cut and flexes his hands before standing again.

“What do you see?” I ask, remembering the feel of cold hands on my skin, the smell of fire and the sound of fluttering wings.

“The trap. It shocked her. It killed her. The Capitol comes in…they ask me to make traps…they kill everyone. I have to fix it.” He returns to working on the broken box. “Have to make them see. Have to stop them.”

“You have to sleep.”

“Do you sleep?” He asks. He looks older than he should, much older than me. The Capitol stole his childhood, stole his life, and how he’s living in a workshop, afraid to sleep because of them.

“The nightmares…they…they don’t go away, but you can’t let them win. You know my father once told me it takes ten times as long to put yourself back together than it does to fall apart…and I guess…if it takes that much effort maybe falling apart isn’t worth it. Think about things that work and just close your eyes.” I shrug, trying my best, not sure if any of it even helps. I don’t even know Springer that well, barely at all, but he’s here just like I am. He’s fighting just like I should be. He survived the same Arena I did. He’s much stronger than me.

“You want to fall apart,” he tells me. He’s right. I do. And the only reason I haven’t is because of my father’s words. I know I can’t fall apart. But God, I want to. I want to fall and never get back up. I look down and it’s all the answer Springer needs.

“You should follow your father’s advice. Advice is good. Good advice is better. You saw the latest Broadcast?” I nod, just enough for him to see the motion, he continues, “The party is in less than an hour. They’ll show it.”

“I know. I’ll be back in medical by then. Probably given some shot of morphling or something…they like to do that. They finally let me out for an hour today…but I think they can see where I go what I do. It’s better than the bed.”

His eyes fall to the wrist band, a light and curiosity in them. He reaches for my wrist, his rough hands pulling it towards him. He examines it closely, watching the numbers tick.

“I can fix this. Give you more time, less eyes. Can leave whenever you want. They’d never know.” He smiles, tapping his fingers together as he thinks, “Yes. I can fix it.”

“Not today. You have a lot going on and you need to sleep.”

“Tomorrow then.” He turns back to his work, losing himself in focus. He mutters a bunch of numbers, terms and parts that I don’t understand as he plugs something in to the box. There’s a loud beep and he writes something down on a scrap of paper. Still muttering to himself.

I trip over a cabinet on my way out, but he never looks up. He just keeps muttering. It almost sounds like a list.

I wander around the hallways of Thirteen, lost to my own devices and trying, failing, to forget my own nightmares. Speaking to Springer just dredged it all back up, the feel of Ivy’s hand on my cheek, the cold that sunk its way into my soul, fragmenting and settling there.

I’m lost in the darkness of the hallway, finding myself leaning against the cool wall as the memory chills me like it’s happening all over again. And I’m angry at it.

I look at my hands and see that they’re shaking. I tried to use these hands to force life back into Grover but they failed. I always fail. I can’t fight. I can’t do anything but stay in bed. It’s my fault I got injured. It’s my fault I’m here and not on the front lines. I can’t go to the Capitol. I can’t save anyone or save myself. My blood boils with all the rage I can’t shed while the panic sets in and I hate every single moment of it.

I close my eyes as my pulse elevates and I have trouble breathing again. They won’t let me walk around if they see my pulse spike, if they see that I’m having another panic attack, and I won’t let this panic win. I won’t lose this small freedom, the first step to what I truly want. I have to calm down. I have to be allowed out.

I have to be allowed to fight.

And it’s the first time I’ve truly thought about it. What I want to do, who I want to be in this war. I know I don’t want to be on the sidelines, but I wasn’t sure where I belonged, what I needed to do.

And now I see it. I have to fight. Why shouldn’t I fight?

“It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together…” I tell myself, closing my eyes and repeating it until my heart calms. It’s a steady calmness that washes over the anger at myself and cools. I have to fight.

“Are you praying?” A voice asks and its calloused, cold, lacking the laugh and viciousness I remember from the burning factory.

I open my eyes and see Emery’s lithe frame leaning against the wall a little further down. Her head cocks to the side like she’s analyzing me and I half wonder if she means to try to kill me again.

“Are you?” She asks again, some of the callous tone dropping, but only slightly. She steps closer and I see the sallowness in her cheeks, the tiredness in her eyes and it’s a familiar look. All of us survivors seem to share the same tired feeling, the same broken thing inside. But despite this I don’t feel sympathy. I feel nothing.

“No,” I finally answer, pulling on the mask I used to wear so well. I can’t seem weak to her, even if the Games are over, I can’t let others see it. And even more so if I want to fight.

“So you’re just having another breakdown. Over your girl?” Emery teases and there’s a half smile she wears that’s anything but friendly.

“She’s not my girl.”

“No she’s not, she’s there’s. The Capitol’s. Snow’s.” She keeps one hand on the wall, stepping even closer and I stand up straighter. She’d have the advantage if she wanted to kill me here. I have to stop myself from thinking like this. This isn’t the Games, but she’s never been trustworthy.

“She’s not there’s either. She doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“Oh such noble defiance. Snow has her. She’s his. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can stop moping around like a kicked puppy.”

“Is that what you did?” I ask, giving back just as good as I’m getting. “He has your Aunt too.”

She doesn’t blink. “I did what I had to. I’m doing what I have to.”

And I no longer think she’s talking about her Aunt. She’s talking about the Games. From the way she watches me, I’m not the only one who feels guilty.

“You played your part so well, didn’t you?” She hisses, her voice steady despite the cold threat in it. The anger in it. Maybe she doesn’t feel guilty.

“Like you said, I did what I had to.” And I remember throwing the trident into Stone, into her District Partner. I remember pretending to ally with them and then leaving them behind in an instant.

“I’m sor--”

“Don’t.” She shakes her head, half laughing, “The apologetic martyr works for Katniss Everdeen but not you. You’re not that and you and I both know it. You’re not sorry. You wanted to survive and you wanted to go home. And you did, mostly. Saying sorry for it is just lying to yourself, pretending you’re a better person than you are.”

I stay silent, she smiles again, “So why don’t you stop pretending to be so broken over it and go back to mommy and daddy and live happily ever after with your family. That is if the Capitol doesn’t just kill us all.”

“Is that what you think it is? Happy ever after?” I snap, “Do you have any idea what the Capitol did to us?”

She gets in close, close enough that I think she’s going to punch me square in the jaw.

“They’re together, aren’t they? They have you, don’t they? My Aunt is stuck in the Capitol having God knows what done to her. My father can barely get out of bed, not even for me. My mother…we’ve all got shit to deal with. Stop acting like a child and get over it.” She pulls back, crossing her arms over her chest.

My hand curls into a fist and I get right back in her face, “Maybe you should too. I knew Stone wasn’t gonna make it from day one. He was too weak. Too full of himself, thinking he’s the best, that he could keep up with Cain. And you, I pegged you from the start too. You were too eager to follow and be cruel, because you thought it hid you but all it did was make you stupid.

“You tried to burn me and Ivy alive and maybe it was Cain’s plan, but you went along with it. You helped him kill Bas and Minnow. I don’t care that you’re not sorry, but don’t act like you don’t feel guilty. You wouldn’t be talking to me if you didn’t. You thought that if you won you wouldn’t have to face the people you hurt, that your choices, you’d be the only one who ever had to deal with them or you’d die. But here we are.”

Her lip curls into a sneer. Her eyes shining despite the rage burning against her.

“The Capitol takes and takes from everyone, Emery, not just you. And I’m sorry for what’s happened to your family, but maybe you should take your own advice and deal with it.” I push past her, leaving her silent and standing in the hallway.

I stop and turn around, “And if you actually bothered to talk to people, they might listen.”

“Is that what you do? Talk? Try to make yourself feel better about it.”

My wrist band starts to beep, saving me from having to lie or worse, answer honestly.

“You better run, don’t want anyone to worry,” Emery says, her voice flat and lacking the harshness of before. She turns her back to me and I see her shoulders slump a little as she leans against the wall.

I keep moving down the hallway as the annoying beeping wails and wails reminding me where I’m supposed to be and where I’m not. I feel a fresh wave of anger at everything. Emery’s words. The wrist band keeping me tagged and tracked throughout Thirteen. What am I supposed to do about anything? I’m just as stuck as everyone else. Stuck and waiting to see how it all shakes out.

Emery’s words ring through my head. Do something about it. I will do something about it.

Tomorrow I have a new plan to work on when I’m allowed out for my hour. Hopefully Springer can rig the wrist band and maybe I can convince my parents not to wait for me. Hell, maybe I can get out of medical all together when no one’s looking, come back before they have the chance to realize I’ve been gone. I have to train. I have to get stronger. I have to prove I can fight.

But today isn’t that day and I have to return even if I don’t want to, even if I want to crawl away somewhere and come up with my own way out.

I return to medical, two minutes late. With all the attention that falls on me I might as well have been two hours late. The doctors and nurses check me for any ripped stitches and even as I brush them off my parents follow with just as much frenzy. I assure everyone that yes, I’m alive, yes, I’m fine, but it doesn’t change anything. It just keeps going.

The Panem Anthem plays and it all comes to a standstill. I feel my heart sink, knowing exactly what I’m about to see. I wish I was back in that hallway, hidden from the broadcast.

Then it hits me, what Emery was really doing there. Hiding. Getting me out of there. Claiming the hallway for herself. Ensuring she didn’t have to see whatever we’re all about to be subjected to.

It doesn’t make me feel sorry for her. And maybe she’s right, maybe feeling sorry is a bunch of crap. I’m not sorry for all of the things I’ve done. I’m guilty over the ones I couldn’t help, who I considered friend and ally, but I’m not guilty over killing Stone or Trina.

I turn to the screen as the party is revealed. There’s some Capitol reporter, done up in all white and wearing a far too wide smile to be natural. She passes through room after room, reporting on outfits, on food, and guests.

I see Ivy in the background. She’s wearing all white just like everyone else at the party. Her crown still rests atop her head. She holds a glass in her hand of some kind of gold liquid.

She smiles and mingles, looking like she’s having the best time of her life. Cashmere walks in front of the camera, dressed like all the rest but with longer sleeves. She glances into the camera for a moment before she’s lost in the crowd.

“She’s alive,” my father breathes, relieved.

The reporter ignores any sight of Cashmere and makes her way over to Ivy, who smiles wider.

“Ivy Mellark. Big day, huh?”

“I’d say.” The reporter laughs much too hard at Ivy’s joke.

“What a lovely crown,” The reporter states, the light glinting on the gold.

“Want to see it?” Ivy asks, a childish pride in her voice that feels so wrong to me it might as well have come from another person. I remember my nightmare, her voice fading and changing. It’s coming true.

The reporter is allowed to hold the crown and even wear it and the two spend a good minute joking about how heavy it is before the reporter finally hands Ivy back the crown. I wonder why Caesar wasn’t the one doing this but then I remember he’s not usually one for field reporting. He’s above it. Snow wouldn’t allow him to tarnish that image of the Games reporter doing fluff interviews at a party, even if it was at the President’s Mansion. Caesar will get the honor of the one on one interview the next morning.

“So what’s it like to have President Snow himself deem you the Victor of the 100th Games? To be welcomed into his home with open arms, hailed a hero and champion, honored in the face of so much controversy with your family? What’s going on in Ivy Mellark’s head?”

And then I see it. The mask cracks, something breaks and freezes inside of her and she hesitates on her words. It’s like a shadow crosses behind her eyes, clouding something that was so easy and clear to her.

“Ivy?” The reporter asks, maintaining her smile despite her discomfort at Ivy not being the perfect Victor.

“It’s…” Ivy blinks, looking around for her answer, “It’s…something,” she whispers. She looks into the camera and there’s no smile there anymore, there’s nothing.

And then it cuts for a second, a change of frame and scenery and Katniss Everdeen is shouting to fight in Twelve amidst it’s ruin. And then Peeta is talking about what the Capitol takes. But it’s only for a second and a second is all that matters.

We’re back on Ivy’s frozen face and it hasn’t changed. There’s something behind her eyes like it’s trying to sort itself out. It doesn’t. She just stares.

“Mom?” She asks and then she’s pulled out of frame by Reagan Snow.

“Let’s let Ivy enjoy her celebration, shall we?” Reagan puts on an award winning smile but the coldness in her eyes betrays her.

The reporter recovers, “Of course. Let’s get back to it,” she says to the camera, going back from room to room. I catch a flash of Ivy being lead out by Reagan and then the broadcast cuts out unceremoniously and I’m left standing in the wake of something I can’t comprehend.

“What just happened?” I finally ask to the silence behind me.

“I don’t know,” my father responds while my mother looks like she’s on the verge of tears. Whatever they’re seeing that I’m not worries me far more than when I knew nothing.

When I’m in my bed the doctors don’t force any morphling on me which I’m grateful for. I close my eyes but I don’t actually fall asleep. After some time passes I hear my parents shuffle out of the room, but it’s not far enough that I can’t make out the whispering.

“What do you think it is?” My mother asks.

“I don’t know, but it’s not good. I used to hear rumors when…they would talk…”

“It’s okay,” my mother tells my father and I hear him take a large breath, steadying. I can imagine her hand on his arm, keeping him in place.

“It could have been him,” my father states, his voice cracking, “It could have been you.”

“I know,” my mother whispers, “but it’s not. We’re here, we’re safe.”

There’s a long silence like a weight is falling onto everything. It presses and pushes until my father takes a heavy breath, “I could make a propo. It might help. I want to help.”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” My mother asks and I can hear the smile in her words.

“It puts us more at risk. So both.” And I can hear the smile in my father’s voice too.

I turn, just able to see them at the edge of my vision. They stand close, much closer than they were ever allowed to in public before. It’s nice to see and I want to fight to keep it.

I close my eyes when they lean in to look at me and then I hear my mother say, “It’s the right thing. But you know what you’re going have to talk about.”

“I know,” he sighs, “but if Peeta can talk about all that…I owe it to myself to do it. I owe it to Beck and to you and to Cashmere. You know she and I…I saw her a lot…she was just as popular… she understood. We have to help them.”

I feel pride swell in my chest as I open my eyes. My mother smiles and wraps her arms around my father and he returns the hug in kind, pulling her close and tightly to him.

“I love you,” my mother tells my father and there’s no fear in saying it, not here. Here, it isn’t whispered like a secret that could destroy them, here it’s said right.

“I love you, too,” he returns, his voice strong and without the pain of it I’ve heard so many times before at home.

“It’s nice to be able to say that, right?” My mother asks, her voice light.

“I keep expecting someone, something to…it’s freeing,” my father answers with a warm smile. I close my eyes again as I hear my father say, “I’ll speak to Peeta.”

They exchange their goodbyes and then I hear my mother walk back into my room. The chair creaks as she takes a seat beside me, her hand falling onto my head.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” she tells me and I open my eyes to look at her.

“Dad doesn’t have to do that,” I say.

“You know your dad, he wants to do something, he’s gonna do it. Just like you.” She leans back in her seat as I sit up.

“I should do one.”

“No,” she replies abruptly, “Absolutely not. You don’t need to be in front of that.”

“Why not? I’ve got stories about the Games, why the Capitol is…”

“You need to get better.”

“The war goes on whether I get better or not. I want to fight. I want to do…something.”

“You are doing something. You’re getting better.”

“So I’m just supposed to stay here while people are being tortured and killed? Or,” Ivy’s frozen face comes to mind, “Worse?”

“Yes,” my mother responds, “You survived the Games. That’s enough. You don’t need to give any more.”

“Yes, I do.” I lie back down, turning my back to her. I hear her take a deep breath and run her hand through her hair. But she doesn’t say anything else to me to continue the argument.

I survived. It has to be for a reason. It has to mean something. And it isn’t just for me to sleep it off. I have to do something. I have to make it count. And it doesn’t matter what Emery says, what my parents say, what anyone thinks, not even what I think. I can do something. I’m doing to do something. I’m going to be stronger. I’m going to fight.

I’m a Victor of the 100th Games and I’m going to make that matter. I have to.

_“I will not be commanded_  
_I will not be controlled_  
_And I will not let my future go on_  
_Without the help of my soul”_

\- The Lost Boy – Greg Holden


	8. The Rebellion: From the Ashes - Katniss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss goes to District Eight and is pushed into the spotlight, finally accepting her role as the Mockingjay.

The Rebellion: From the Ashes – Katniss

The hovercraft lands in District Eleven bringing an end to the shaking and rattling that’s followed us since we took off. We were supposed to begin in Eight, but there was an attack, so we changed course.

We land amidst burning fields and dead Peacekeepers. Wary eyes watch me as I exit and step onto the smoking ground. I make my way towards the Justice Building and it’s all so similar. It’s where I made one of my first speeches my Victory Tour and it’s where this Tour begins now.

And that’s what this feels like, another Tour with different words for a different President. Maybe Coin’s promoting freedom more than fear, maybe she’s trying to save us and stop all the horror but it feels like I’m in the same place. I am in the same place. I’m wearing a different costume. I’m dressed like the Mockingjay, ready to fight and win a war, not Katniss Everdeen, Capitol supporter.

I wait in a room inside the Justice Building like I did so many years before. It’s quiet and smells like dust, colliding on my senses and making my head hurt. And not for the first time I wonder if Ivy has to sit in rooms like this or if she’s kept somewhere worse.

I look out the window to see the trees and fields that haven’t burned yet and I remember Rue. I remember her whistled tune and my head hurts worse in the dust.

There’s a knock on the door and Gale enters. He gives me a nod, “They’re ready for you.”

I follow him out, taking the same path I took years ago, heading towards a stage with a crowd waiting for me to speak. Or maybe there won’t be anyone, maybe everyone has given up on me and they don’t need to hear me speak. Maybe they don’t care about me anymore. They don’t care about Katniss Everdeen. They don’t care about the Mockingjay.

But the doors open and I see the crowd and the old platforms where the fallen tribute’s families usually stand, where Rue’s aunt once stood. There’s no Peeta here to help me, to see me through this. I have to step onto the stage alone.

The Mayor of Eleven, a small woman with a fresh cut bisecting her face, announces my name and the crowd stays silent. I take the steps to the microphone and I have no cards Effie wrote for me, I have nothing. This is supposed to be real. I have to make it real.

But all I can do is stare where Rue’s aunt once stood. All I can do is remember what happened years ago, what’s happening now. The smoke rises from the burning fields and I wonder how many people died, how many are dying.

“Katniss, there isn’t much time. The Peacekeepers will return,” The Mayor tells me and the silence just keeps pressing. No one wants the Mockingjay. They needed her and she disappeared and it doesn’t matter why.

I hear Ivy’s voice in my head, telling everyone to lay down their weapons. I hear Peeta yelling and broken. And I hear Coin saying the country needs me. And I don’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to say back then, I just let Peeta talk. And now, when they need me to say something, I can’t say the wrong thing. I can’t make them hate me more. I can’t make them believe in me.

It’s all too much.

I remember Rue’s whistle, I remember the riot that followed and I wonder if they blame me for the old man still. I stopped a rebellion when they needed it and all the deaths that followed are on me. What do I say for that?

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice small and hollow. I step off the stage, unable to say a damn thing.

Gale follows me to the back and instead of a riot following, there’s just more silence. The doors close and I can barely breathe. I want to rip the Mockingjay outfit from my skin, I want to burn it and forget it and hide somewhere dark and safe.

“Katniss,” he starts but I shake my head.

“I can’t. I can’t be who they want me to be,” I admit.

He says nothing in response. The Mayor comes inside and instead he talks to her about ways to fortify the District and how best to attack the Peacekeepers.

“We can move on,” Cressida says and I don’t need to be told twice to head back because I’m practically running for the hovercraft.

“Let Thirteen know if there’s anything else you need. We need to support each other. We’ll defeat the Capitol,” Gale tells the Mayor with a shake of his hand and I’m reminded of what Coin needs the most, what everyone needs. Support. It’s why she couldn’t try to fight before. It’s all about allies, support, just like the Games. No one wins alone.

I didn’t win alone. Try as I might to forget them. I didn’t win alone. I won because of Rue, because of Peeta. And after, I only lived because Snow let me, because I did what he asked.

I sit in a corner of the hovercraft, alone and tired and ashamed.  What I said in Twelve came easy. It was anger and fire, born out of witnessing destruction. It was the truth. I can’t find that here in Eleven, I’m too afraid to find it here.

As I wait for the hovercraft to take off Cressida comes over with a small screen, a thin line forming a sympathetic smile as she hands it to me.

“I thought you’d want to see.”

I take the screen with shaking hands to find my worst fear, my darkest nightmare, come true.

Ivy stands on stage, welcome and crowned in the Capitol, a Victor displayed for a hungry and false loving audience. The breath leaves my lungs like I’ve just been punched and I remember the night before my Games. Peeta sat with me. He told me what his worst fear was. And that’s what Ivy has become.

A piece in their Games.

I throw the screen against the wall of the hovercraft. It shatters as it collides with the steel, the glass raining down. I fold my knees into my chest and stare at the wall, repeating my mantra, preparing myself for what has to happen, who I have to be.

I can’t let the silence consume me. I have to be stronger. I have to find the Mockingjay again.

The hovercraft shakes and rattles as it takes off again.

Hours later I step off the hovercraft to the dust and destruction of Eight, a heaviness and hardness in my heart I didn’t know I had but I’m glad to have found.

My hands grip the bow so tight it hurts, but I don’t let up. Commander Paylor, with grey hair and deep wrinkles under her eyes, greets us. She doesn’t smile, she just gets to business, which I appreciate.

“We’re surprised you came,” she says to me, her voice not entirely unwelcoming.

“We were told it was safe enough,” Gale states.

“That’s not why we’re surprised.” She watches me. “The things you said for years, people don’t just forget that.”

I turn to her, trying to choose my words when all I want to do is hide. I have to face this. I can’t let the Capitol have my daughter. And then I remember what I said to Ivy before she went into the Games, what I know in my heart to be true and what I needed her to believe, what I believe. So I repeat it, “I can’t let them win.”

She nods in what feels like approval, like respect, before she leads us into the hospital.

It’s dark with the smell of must and death as I hear coughing and choking and the moans of the dying. It’s hot, the heat pressing against us like a wall, the sweat making my hair stick to my face almost instantly. I feel sick.

Commander Paylor pulls a tarp aside and I feel the eyes on me before I see them. Children who can walk are kept by their parents’ side watching with a wide eyed fascination that reminds me of Ivy and Bas. When they were babies, they used to look at me like I was the world, a look that frightened me more than the Games. They expected everything or maybe they expected nothing, I just thought, like everyone else who looked at me that they expected something. Something more than what I could give. And these kids in here, these kids broken by war and pain and suffering, like my children, or really, Ivy, the only one still alive. They look at me with hope.

I stumble into Gale’s back but recover. I can’t let them see me stumble. I can’t be on camera stumbling. I’m reminded of when I volunteered for Prim, when I made that long walk up to the stage, I knew I couldn’t show my fear, I couldn’t seem weak and right now it’s the same. I want President Snow to know I’m not afraid and I want the people around me to follow, to fight, to help me save Ivy.

I have to stay strong when the whispers begin, words I’m all too familiar with. Mockingjay. Traitor. Hero. Capitol. Rebel. I swallow them down. I can’t ignore them. I have to become them. I have to fix them.

There’s a small boy with a bad limp who climbs onto an empty bed to stare at me. All eyes follow bringing an expectation with it, the pressing heat becoming harsher, unyielding. A deep silence falls over, consuming the crowd, even the dying hold their breaths.

“You’re really here?” The small boy speaks and it takes me a moment to nod. “Why?”

“I’m here to fight for you,” I say, but the words feel false, I’m not here to fight for them, I’m here to do what I have to so I can fight for Ivy.

“We don’t need anyone fighting for us,” a woman pulls the boy off the bed to shield him behind her. And the message is clear. We don’t need _you_ to fight for us. A traitor. A loyal Capitol spokeswoman. We don’t need you.

They’re right.

“I know. You don’t. But we can fight together.” And that feels real, that feels right, “This is your son?” I ask.

She nods, tentative and cold, “I had a son.” I look at the boy’s eyes and they remind me of Bas. He was smaller when he was much younger, but his eyes were always big and wide and excited.  Even as the years went on and anger pulled that light away, a part of it stayed. And this boy’s eyes share that excitement, that light, and I don’t want the Capitol to make them get angry, I don’t want them to lose that innocence.

The woman’s mouth turns from a hard line to a frown. “We saw the Games,” she says though there’s no sympathy in it.

“I couldn’t fight for my son. I couldn’t save him. And I know there are things that I’ve said and done that I can’t take back, but I wouldn’t take them back. I can’t. It was for my family. No matter what happened I’ve always tried to protect them.” I turn to the crowd, “Together, we can fight. We can win. For our families, for the future, for their future.” I wave my hand towards the boy to iterate my point as to who’s future we should be fighting for.

I take a breath, “I don’t care if you hate me. I don’t care if you trust me. My daughter is in the Capitol. She won’t be the last if we let this keep going. Let me fight with you. To save her. To save all of them. No more Games. No more dead children. Let’s save them.”

The silence that follows is agonizing. I know it’s not the best speech, but it’s real. It’s not one that was written for me, it’s something I needed to say. I don’t care if they hate me. I don’t care if they never really want me there. I just want them to understand that this fight matters more than what they think of me. For Ivy. Her life matters more than mine.

And when I think it’s time to turn and leave, to let the hospital be in peace, the unexpected happens. The boy whistles a familiar three note tune and the woman kisses her three middle fingers and raises them. Her son follows suit and one by one, all around me, hands are in the air telling me I’m forgiven.

I move about the hospital, visiting different patients and going through all the things I’ve seen Prim and my mother do. The thought of my mother brings a hollow feeling. I know she died in the bombings in Twelve. I know I’ve lost her. There’s a part of me that feels I never really had her after my father died. And I wonder if that hollow feeling would have followed Ivy if I had died early on, if that feeling will happen to her now should I die in this war. My vow to remind her every day how much I love her strengthens at the thought and I pull myself out of my head long enough to stay strong for those around me and the cameras on me.

Some of the patients tell me stories of the fighting, some remarking on others’ bravery or falling apart at the losses. The kids, the ones too young to really take in what’s happening, recount the tales of the hovercrafts and the gunfire with a simplicity and ease that no adult can possess. The kids can still smile and that’s what makes the heaviness in my heart lift for a moment. I forget the cameras on me. I forget all of it, even the sweltering heat.

But the roar of engines brings me back to reality. Alarms follow, footsteps echo as they pound on the ground and hurry through. There’s the sound of an explosion and it shakes the building and the ground around me.  I hit the floor as another explosion booms outside.

The Capitol is here.

People scream, cower under beds and protect each other. My eyes land on the small boy’s as he hides underneath a bed and they’re so wide with fear I can’t shake the image of Bas’ eyes open in his last moments. No, it can’t happen again.

I have to get out there. I have to help.

I push myself up and run through the medical bay. And it feels like another Arena. It feels like I’m right back where this all began, in the Games, fighting to survive.

I can hear Gale and Boggs yelling after me but their voices are drowned out by another explosion. Glass shatters around me but I keep running even through the sea of screams and the roar of blood in my ears. Nothing else matters but getting outside. Nothing matters but saving Bas.

I stumble when I remember Bas isn’t here. The boy in the hospital, that’s not my son, my son is dead. I have to repeat my mantra as I pick up my pace again. Bas is dead but that doesn’t mean I can’t make this count. For everyone else, this can matter. And then a new thought crashes and sinks into my mind. Make them proud. Make his memory proud.

I jump through a broken window and keep running as hovercrafts fly above. The wind picks up as they pass dropping bomb after bomb. Gunfire follows with the shout of orders. Commander Paylor screams my name, but I’m not listening. I’m not listening to anything but the sound of the bombs and my own breathing.

Gale catches up to me as he always used to. His hand lands on my shoulder as a building collapses in front of us. There are no words of argument, just a nod, sure and ready.

I drop for cover as a hovercraft passes over. I pull an arrow from the quiver at my back, remembering which arrows go where, repeating my mantra as I make my selection. A Peacekeeper fires onto me and I fire back with a black tipped arrow, hitting the Peacekeeper in the neck right where the helmet separates from their uniform.

The Peacekeeper drops as I run for the stairs of a broken watchtower. I load a red tipped arrow, watching for the hovercrafts to make their approach. But then I hear a shout as I step onto the first step of the watchtower.

Two Peacekeepers wait, guns raised. I duck under the first Peacekeeper as they fire, rolling out of the way, bullets hitting the stone steps. They both erupt into flames before I have a chance to fire my arrow. I turn to see Gale behind me, his crossbow in hand.

“Move!” He orders and I run up the stairs of the watchtower. We cover behind the broken wall as a hovercraft flies over.

More Peacekeepers march through Eight towards us. The Rebel soldiers cover from rooftops and behind buildings, an army meeting the Peacekeepers in the streets. It’s a fury of gunfire and the flying of hovercrafts as chaos reigns.

I fire the red tipped arrow at the assaulting Peacekeepers. The whites of their suits disappear in an eruption of debris and dust. My ear rings, the heat flares over my face, stinging my eyes. It reminds me of when I destroyed food in an Arena with Rue, an ally who died, and it’s the Games, it’s the destruction of Twelve, it’s all the same over and over and over again. And it’s a clock, a wheel that never stops turning.

Bullets smack against the stone of the watchtower where I hide. Sweat sticks to my forehead as my breath heaves through the dust. It chokes and for a moment, there’s silence among the ringing in my ears. But the ringing stops, the sun peeks through, and the dust clears. When it does there’s a shout as a group of our fighters charge forward, firing guns, throwing rocks, whatever they can do to win against the remaining Peacekeepers. I see their faces, dirty and angry and so brave. They don’t look much older than Ivy.

Gale pulls me back down to cover as more bullets rip through the air. There’s the whip of wind and the screech of an engine as another hovercraft makes its approach overhead. It’s going to drop another bomb. It’ll kill all our fighters and even their own people. They don’t care. They just want to win. They can’t drop another bomb. They can’t destroy another District. They won’t kill us. I reach for an explosive arrow, waiting for the hovercraft to get closer.

Gale fires at the fighting below, taking out Peacekeepers and I watch the hovercraft gliding through the smoke. I hear the gunshots and the yelling but it’s just white noise against my pounding heart. All I can do is wait for it to turn, to get close enough that I can take it down.

But it never does.

It isn’t aiming for us.

When I see what it is aiming for my fingers slip, the arrow drops from my hand, clattering to the ground unsent.

There’s a loud boom larger than any of the others that came before, it crashes into every muscle and bone, radiating through me and around me. Flames erupt over the hospital. I can see the boy’s wide eyes watch me. I can hear Bas take his final breath. I see hands in the air, patients too sick to move, children smiling.

The rest of the building collapses and I can’t move. My heart sinks and it feels like Bas dying all over again, it feels like losing Twelve and Rue and all the things I tried to push away and forget. My hands shake and there’s no stopping or controlling it. Not here. Not now. All I feel is anger and fury at all of this.

The hovercraft turns to make another pass and this time it is coming for us. I step farther out of cover. I need to make this shot count. All those people. People I was just with, people I said I would fight with, would help. What point is there in bombing a hospital? They’re already hurt. They can’t do anything else. It all feels senseless and wrong.

I take another step and I can see the young rebel soldiers crawling on the ground, hurt and dying, and still keeping up the fight for as long as they can. The last one standing hurls a grenade at the thinning assault of Peacekeepers as a bullet hits him in the chest and he falls next to his friends.

The Peacekeepers keep marching, they keep firing, even as the grenade goes off and they’re white uniforms are stained red.

I take another step out from behind cover watching the hovercraft turn. Gale fires at the Peacekeepers before they can shoot me. I hear a bullet smack into the wall behind me as I take another step forward. I load one of the explosive arrows, keeping my eyes on the hovercraft, waiting for it to be close enough.

I’ve got one shot. It has to count for something.

I take a breath, my hands steady as I pull the string tight. I see the sword cut through Bas. I see Ivy in her dress being crowned. I feel the heat of the hospital and hear the whistled tune that Rue was the first to sing. The bodies of those fighting below me stare and watch and wait.

A breeze picks up, bringing smoke into my vision, but I’ve got the shot lined up. I know I can make it. I have to make it.

They can’t win.

They’ve already taken too much, they won’t take this. I’m taking this. For everyone still left, for everyone still fighting, and I will keep fighting as long as I can still stand. I couldn’t save Twelve. I couldn’t save the hospital. But I can stop this hovercraft from hurting anyone else.

I hear the engine get closer through the smoke. My eyes sting and water but I can’t let it get to me. I can’t miss, not here, not in this place, not now. And my words were true, I’m fighting for my family, for their future. I think of Prim and Rory and their son, they deserve a world without the Games, without the Capitol. And so does Ivy, even when the damage has been done, she deserves to heal, to be free of it. And Peeta too. This is for them, for all of them.

And for me.

I hold my breath. I take the shot.

There’s the creaking of metal and a loud boom as the hovercraft crashes and burns. There are more engines with gunshots that fire at me. I roll out of the way and fire another explosive arrow, barely having enough time to register the motions, and there’s another hovercraft burning.

There are no more engines after that and the gunfire of the Peacekeepers on the ground is silenced a moment later. I let out a breath, my hands staying steady.

When I step down from the watchtower my eyes are on the burning hospital, the first hovercraft I shot down fallen a few feet from it. I can feel the tears threaten before they fall and then Cressida’s voice breeches the silence.

“Katniss, what happened here?”

I turn and it’s like Twelve all over again. “The Capitol happened.”

“This was a hospital. They were helping people here and the Capitol destroyed it,” I think of Prim being inside, trying to care for others and do the right thing. I think of her being killed when all she’s doing is helping.

“This is what they do. This is who they are. They kill children for sport and they make us pay for it. They kill people who need help, who are trying to help. They don’t care. Snow doesn’t care. He’ll destroy all of us.”

And then I’m shouting, “Well I’m not going to let him. Not anymore.” I point to the hovercraft, “I destroyed that. Me. The Mockingjay! The Games are over, President Snow. You don’t own us anymore!”

Everything after is a blur as time passes and the dust clears. When we’re back on our old hovercraft Cressida reviews the footage, editing and sending it back to Coin and Beetee in Thirteen. It makes it easier, I suppose, to not have to go back and leave all over again.

To leave Peeta all over again.

I pull my knees to my chest in my corner of the hovercraft and I find my hands still have the dust and grime from Eight. I hear my words screaming you don’t own us and Cressida smiles as she hits send.

I watch the cabin of the hovercraft, feeling the interior shake with turbulence. I remember all the people inside the hospital and I feel sick to my stomach.

I should have seen it. I should have known the Capitol was coming. We should have expected an attack. Everywhere I go there’s going to be an attack.

I lean my head against a secured crate and imagine the little boy’s eyes watching me.

“It’s not your fault.”

My heart jumps. I know that voice. I know that certainty and calm, but it’s not possible. That voice doesn’t exist. That voice is dead.

I blink and then I see eyes the same color as mine staring back at me. I see _him_ sitting across from me. His blonde hair falls into his face. There are no injuries, no dirt and blood. He looks better than the last time I saw him. He looks happy. He looks safe.

“Bas,” I whisper, as if the very sound of my voice will shatter this illusion.

“Hi,” he answers and I swallow to keep the tears at bay. I must have fallen asleep. I can’t wake up. Not yet. If I cry I’ll wake up.

“I’m the Mockingjay,” he says in his best impression of me, “Finally.” He half laughs, but I can’t join in not when I can still feel the heat of the hospital fire.

“It’s not your fault,” he repeats.

“I know. But I still feel guilty.”

“You don’t have to apologize for surviving.” He sits up straighter, “And I don’t just mean surviving today.” Before I have a chance to rebuke any of it he responds, “Or apologize to me for what happened. Any of it. The Games, the Capitol, Snow, you said it yourself they don’t care. It doesn’t really matter who dies or what for, the idea is all the same…it’s all about power, keeping people in their place. I was just a victim of it, so were you.”

He impersonates me again, puffing up his chest and raising his shoulders, “But the Games are over, President Snow. You don’t own us anymore. Good words.”

I shake my head. He sinks back into his seat a little, looking older than before, “You’ve always known that power corrupts, that’s why you never wanted it. That’s why you were afraid of it. Because if it corrupts you, what good is there in being the Mockingjay.”

I let out a heavy sigh and I know he’s right with every word. I watch him, and I see all fourteen years at once. He takes his first steps and he stumbles and then he’s steady and running everywhere. He says his first words and then he doesn’t stop talking, and as the cameras take their toll, he scowls and never says a thing. He draws. He paints the Mockingjay. He sees the world through lenses that are much smarter than anyone else. He sees the truth. And then all of it is gone the day his name is called from the Reaping bowl. I remember the last time I hugged him, the last time I could say goodbye and it’ll never be enough.

“How’d you get to be so smart?” I ask and I find myself smiling at him.

He leans back against the hovercraft and shrugs and the years melt, “Just did. With some help.” And he watches me but all I can do is shake my head. He didn’t get it from me. He couldn’t have. But he looks at me and I know that he thinks he did.

“I wouldn’t trade you, no matter what, I wouldn’t want another mother.” He smiles again and all I can do is watch him, aching to have him back in my arms, to see him smile for real.

“Watch out for Coin. Operation Castle, it was all about taking the Capitol, but she can’t do that without support. Gale said it, you know what that means.”

My throat feels dry, my head pounds and it feels like I’m trying to work it all out but I can’t. I’m on a precipice of revelation and I know what Bas says is true, what he means.

“No matter what happens, promise me, you won’t disappear. Ivy needs you. The real you. All of you. She needs to know it’s not her fault either.” Bas holds out his hand and I just stare.

“Promise,” he repeats and I reach for him. When my hand touches his it’s warm, surprisingly so. I tighten my grip and nod.

“I promise.”

And I remember being the one to say his words to my own mother, worried about Prim, worried about all that I was leaving behind. And it’s in this moment that I understand both sides, I understand more than I want to about my mother.

Bas and I fall into silence as the hovercraft shakes, the world blurring around us.

My voice breaks, “Will you stay? Until I wake up.”

He nods, “I love you, Mom.”

“Mom.” It repeats until his voice fades and warps and then it turns into Ivy’s desperate and pained voice asking.

My eyes snap open. I stand, my neck aching from the poor sleeping position against the crate. Did I imagine it? No, I couldn’t have.

Everyone is gathered around Cressida at one end of the hovercraft. She holds a screen. It’s a backup. She brought plenty of those. Good considering I shattered the first one.

I push forward, past Gale and Pollux and then I’m staring at Ivy’s frozen face before Reagan Snow pulls her away.

“What happened?” I ask, frantic, on edge. My own pained voice mirroring Ivy’s.

Everyone looks at me but no one answers. So I wait, wait for someone to actually form a response. They glance to each other as if deciding who has to be the one to deliver the news to me. I turn to Gale. He’ll answer. He has to.

“We don’t know,” Gale finally says.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“One minute she was talking, she was celebrating, then the interviewer asked about what it felt like, what was going on in her head…and…” Gale trails off, trying to put together what he saw and what I missed, or what I saw the end of.

“She just froze,” Boggs finishes. “You saw Reagan pulling her away. That was it.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, clenching my hand to stop it from shaking, because I know that it’s not good. Whatever just happened, Ivy’s going to end up paying for the failure to keep up appearances. There’s no telling how bad that’s going to be.

“They won’t kill her,” Messalla answers, sure of that fact and that fact alone. Cressida nods in confirmation.

“She’s still useful. She’s just been crowned a Victor, people love her. They can spin this, say it was an emotional day or something like that. They won’t kill her,” she repeats Messalla’s affirmation but my hand still shakes.

“But they’re going to do something to her.”

And no one can answer that, no one can make that fear go away because it’s the truth. We all know it.

“It’s possible,” Boggs states in his collected and controlled tenor.

And I know it’s much more than a possibility, it’s a guarantee. “They will.”

“Something else happened,” Gale says, “Your broadcast got through during Ivy’s. She saw it. She knows you’re out here, she knows you’re fighting.” He takes a breath, “It’ll give her something to hold onto.”

“Give her something to hold onto?!” I snap, “We should be focused on getting her back, not giving her something to hold on to.” I turn away from the team, retreating back to my corner.

“Katniss,” Gale catches up to me, “I didn’t mean…this doesn’t work if there isn’t a way to get into the Capitol, if we can’t find her and get her. They have Two and One and allies helping them all over. Without those allies, there’s a chance to get in and get her, with them, there isn’t. We have to keep going.”

He reaches for my arm and I snap it away, “We’re going back to Thirteen. It’s time Coin rescues her.”

“It’s not that simple. We don’t have a way.”

“Operation Castle. You do have a way, figure it out.”

“She won’t do it without another broadcast. You need to show her something more than taking down a hovercraft in Eight and declaring yourself the Mockingjay.”

“I am the Mockingjay,” I say with more force then I feel. He falls silent under the weight of my words and I know that we need more, that Coin will need more. But I have a power here, I can go to Coin now and have her say that she needs something else or I can give her no choice but to do what I want her to. “Stop in Twelve on the way.”

And with that I turn away from Gale and sink back into my corner.

Walking through Twelve feels like standing at the end of the world. It’s quiet, a graveyard of a once populated District. Every piece of rubble I step over I remember what it used to be.

I pass the bakery where Bas and Ivy would spend afternoons with Peeta. His mother hated it, hated the idea that the children weren’t there to work, his brothers would keep her away long enough for Peeta to relax and spend time with them, so they all could enjoy it.

I hear the voices in the Hob, the ruin of it hollow and burnt beyond recognition. All the houses, all the people, the Justice building where I once stood as Tribute then Victor then Mentor, where Ivy and Bas stood. It’s all gone.

The worst is at the center of town. The bodies of those that couldn’t escape are piled over each other, frozen in the last moments of fear and desperation, climbing over rocks and rubble and each other only to never escape.

It takes all of me to even breathe in that moment. Gale falls to his knees at the sight, his eyes glazed over and his mouth half hanging open. Cressida gets it all on camera.

“I should have…” He says and he can’t say anymore. This was his home too. And now it’s gone. There’s no way he can ever come back, that it can ever be the same.

I go to the lake where I used to take Ivy and Bas to swim. It seems like it’s been a thousand years since then. I remember the days where the sun would shine so brightly it was almost blinding. I would hear my children laugh, carefree and happy. I remember when I could pretend things were easy, that things would always be like this.

I was lying to myself. I’m still lying if I think I’ll have those days back. The others keep further away as they take their seats and start to eat the rations they brought off the hovercraft. I just look at mine, unable to take a bite as the sun glitters on the water.

The Mockingjays sing, bright and lilting. For a moment I close my eyes and pretend I’m just sitting here, safe, alone, the world still spinning and not turned upside down. A rock hits the water and I open my eyes, watching Messalla and Castor skipping rocks and failing at it.

Pollux shifts over to sit next to me. He taps his ear and makes a sign over his throat.

“You want me to sing?” I ask. He nods. Singing has never been something I’ve turned to. I used to sing to Ivy and Bas when they were younger but then I stopped. I couldn’t keep it going, no matter how many times they asked. Every time I did it, it broke whatever fragile wall I was building. So I stopped.

I haven’t sung in years, not to anyone. When Ivy sang in her arena I felt my stomach drop because it reminded me too much of myself, of a part of myself she took with her, a part of myself that Bas took with him. The part of me that used to exist before I had to survive everything.

I hear Bas remind me that it isn’t my fault, that surviving is surviving and it brings me comfort.

So I sing.

The Hanging Tree starts out quiet but then it gets stronger. My voice growing with each line, gathering strength from the song, from my memory of Ivy singing it.

The Mockingjay’s fall quiet, just as they used to, and Pollux smiles long after it’s over.

“Katniss?” I hear and I turn around to see Peeta emerging from the tree line. His eyes are wide, incredulous, but he looks better than the last time I saw him. He’s healing, or at least, he looks like he is despite the bruised knuckles. I wonder who or what he’s been fighting.

I stand but I’m not quite sure what to do after that, neither is he.

“I’ll…” he heads back into the trees and I stop myself from following. I’m not sure what to do, what we’re supposed to be now.

I find him in the Victor’s Village, still intact after everything, probably intentionally. Before I head into our house I see his Propo team from Thirteen waiting outside wearing cameras of their own. They’re different than my team. They look around, wide eyed and afraid. I don’t think they’ve even been outside Thirteen before.

When I walk inside our old house it feels like another world, another life. There’s a thin layer of dust on the furniture and I can see where Peeta wiped it off of the few photographs we had hanging. We used to put more up for the cameras, posed and fake ones that sold the image of the happy family. But we always changed to the real ones, the ones taken and drawn from memories we needed to keep and those we kept up the rest of the year.

I stare at one of Bas and Ivy covered in dirt as they hang off Haymitch, trying to pull him into the mud with them but too small to manage it. The one next to it is of Peeta and me on our wedding day. It’s a Capitol picture, no spec of dirt to be seen, a falseness in the glossy print. At the beginning I always would try to take it down to replace the pictures, but Peeta always insisted we keep this one up. And I can see why now, I can see our smiles and I know. My throat dries and I’m afraid to turn and take another step, but I have to. I pass the stairs unable to look up from the floor. I can’t see the hallway that leads to their rooms, to our room. I can’t remember the life that we had even if we were stuck under the Capitol’s thumb during it. It was still a life, it was our life, and we were happy.

I walk into the kitchen to find Peeta standing with his elbows on the counter and his head in his hands.

“Taking a nap?” I ask and he lifts his head, a weary smile crossing his face.

“I didn’t realize you would be filming here. I thought…it would be better for me to talk here…but if you…”

“I don’t own the District, Peeta,” I tell him, leaning against the wall. His smile softens before it falls. “But if you want it, by all means, it’s yours.”

“You look good. Better. That doesn’t sound…I didn’t mean…” Peeta falls off and he twists his hands and in a lot of ways he reminds me of his old self, but I’ve never seen him this uncertain, unsure. Scared of me.

“I know what you meant. You too.” And I’m frozen, unable to take another step from the wall. All I can do is watch him.

“How is it going? I’ve seen the footage, it looks…it looks tough.”

“Yours too,” I take a breath, the silence pressing between us, “You saw Ivy’s?”

He nods before shaking his head in anger, “He knows what he’s doing. Snow. He knows what that museum means.” His hands clench and he balls a fist making his bruises more evident. How many times has he had to punch his way out of whatever he’s feeling? I imagine him dealing with it, punching alone, falling apart.

I take my step forward. My hands cover his bruises, wrapping around him and there’s a familiarity in his warmth. His hand relaxes and I let out a breath in relief.

“The broadcast of the party, I didn’t see the whole thing.” And it’s not voiced like a question but he knows what I’m asking, what the others couldn’t answer for me.

“She was putting on a good show. I think. It didn’t feel like a show until they asked what she was thinking. Then it was like…”

“Like what?”

“Like she couldn’t remember what she was supposed to say, like she didn’t know.” Peeta swallows hard and his hand tightens around mine, sealing us both in this moment.

“We’re gonna get her back.”

“The Propos…”

“We tell them we won’t do any more until they get her. They have a way, a plan. There’s enough footage between the both of us. Coin can see that we’ll work with her, but until they get Ivy they won’t get anything new.” I remember making my demands and Coin’s earliest convenience is no longer applicable. Ivy needs to be back at my convenience, which is now.

Peeta takes in my plan, working it through his head and calculating any ways it could go wrong. But he never offers a counter-argument. He just stands up a little straighter, his mouth set in a hard line, his eyes watching me as he nods.

“Okay.”

For the first time in weeks a calm that only Peeta can give me takes over. Everything around us quiets and all I can see is him. And it’s just like when we went into the Games, just like when we came out. No matter what else was going on, he made everything else fade away. Whether it was on the chariots or in the Capitol over the years, he gives me hope that things can be good, can be better. We can be happy.

Gale steps in moments later. His face is impassive, like he’s not sure what he’s going to say and he can’t believe what the words are. He clears his throat as he walks in, straightening and shifting on his feet, trying to settle on how he’s going to say whatever is about to follow.

“What happened?” I ask and my pulse pounds as my mind races with all the possibilities of what the message is going to be. Thirteen was attacked. Twelve is going to be attacked again. Ivy is gone. The last thought nearly cripples me. I grip Peeta’s hand tighter, never going to let go of it again.

What I don’t expect are the words that Gale says next. His voice trembling and whispering in disbelief as he tells us, “President Snow is dead.”

_“I can't seem to find no peace anymore._   
_I'll come out of this, out of this._   
_Everywhere I turn there seems to be another war._   
_We'll come out of this, out of this.”_

\- Cruel – The Head and the Heart

 


	9. The Rebellion: Burial - Katniss and Beck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta face an uncertain future as President Snow's funeral airs while Beck helps Springer and finds comfort in his family.

The Rebellion: Burial – Katniss and Beck

Most nights I dream of the Arena. I dream of thousands of faces calling my name then tearing me apart. I feel myself dying in fire or buried under earth. I see Mutts with eyes I used to know. I hear screams as Tracker Jackers destroy the Careers I’ve set them on. I hear cannons and Caesar Flickerman declaring me the Girl on Fire.

When I don’t suffer those dreams, when I don’t hear people screaming for help or telling me I’ve failed them as bodies pile up and blood drowns me, I see my family. I hear Peeta tell me he hates me. That he should have won alone. I see Bas running through the meadow, sun shining on his hair until he falls on toddler legs and stands tall at fourteen with a sword through his stomach. Ivy twirls in the same meadow, picking up dandelions and wearing a dress my mother made with shoes Effie bought her lying forgotten on the ground. She laughs and smiles and waves to me until the rain comes and then her hands are wrapped around my throat as she screams it’s my fault over and over. Some nights I’m the one who holds the sword and I drive it through Bas myself and even worse then I fire an arrow into Ivy and destroy her too.

All of them remind me of the guilt that I drag around like a noose, choking me from the inside.

Tonight my nightmare starts in an empty white room with roses falling around us, the stench of blood so strong in the air I think I’m going to throw up. Ivy stands before me, smiling, with one arm outstretched. She’s small, no older than five, wearing the same dress from the meadow as she holds Bas’ hand as he stands on chubby legs that he still can’t quite manage to use to keep himself upright.

“Mama,” Bas calls and I take a step forward. My shoes echo, like rocks being thrown into water and landing in the darkness somewhere far below us. Everything sounds muffled, off, like my ears need to pop but won’t.

I take another step but I’m no closer to them. Ivy’s smile falls, her arm drops and she and Bas grow up before me. They stand, dressed in white like the room around them, no smiles, no arms outstretched, that youthful light in their eyes extinguished.

And then Bas disappears leaving nothing but empty space where he once stood.

But Ivy stays where she is, staring at me, waiting for me. I start to run but the distance never changes no matter how fast I push myself to go.

“Mom,” she calls and it’s the same way she said it in her interview, with the same desperation and confusion.

“On the one-hundredth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them can’t always protect those they love from their past actions, this year’s male and female tributes will be reaped from the children of previous victors,” President Snow’s voice booms.

Reagan Snow stands behind Ivy, a wicked smile creeping along her features as her nails dig into Ivy’s shoulders so hard they draw blood. It stains the white dress in drops. I keep running but I get no closer to getting my daughter back.

The nails turn to hooks as President Snow’s laugh echoes throughout the room and the drops of blood become streams that stain the dress in streaks. His laugh stops to be replaced by the choking cough as he hacks and wretches until there’s nothing but silence. Then Reagan is the one laughing.

“As a reminder to Katniss Everdeen that her children were never hers,” Reagan says and the hooks dig deeper into Ivy as she’s dragged away. “The Capitol claims back their property.”

Peacekeepers surround me, tying my hands and my legs with rope before wrapping a bag over my head that I choke on. I pull against the ropes as they dig into my skin, burning while they cut off the circulation. I’m hit from behind and dragged away from Ivy. I hear the sounds of bars being closed, of my daughter crying, and then there’s nothing but darkness and the feel of my breath warming the bag and making sweat run down my nose.

The ropes and bag disappear and I take a breath to find I’m in a cage, surrounded by darkness and steel bars with no chance of escape. I run to the bars, punching and pounding until my knuckles bleed and then I punch some more. But I can’t escape.

When I wake screaming only to bury the demons of the night before, I face a reality that’s much worse.

I’ve never heard Thirteen so silent. No one is sure of how to react to the news that President Snow is dead. No one knows what it means exactly. The Capitol isn’t in chaos. The war still goes on. There isn’t a winner. It’s just the same with more confusion piled on top of it.

There’s barely anywhere to move with the amount of people packed in one room watching the screens. I’m alone in the crowd, pushing my way through so I can get to the screen. I need to see. I need to know where Ivy is, if she’s even there.

I need to know that she’s still alive after all of this.

When we came back to Thirteen from Twelve, no one talked much. There was nothing anyone could think to say, even Peeta. We were met by Effie, Haymitch, and Finnick as Coin pulled all of us into the meeting room.

Plutarch talked about the possibilities of what would come next. There would be a new President. They could be good for the Rebels or they could be bad. There might be more problems in the Capitol that the Rebels could just sweep in and take the city, but there was no way to act without knowing what the outcome was going to be or who might take control.

The new President might decide on a truce or they might continue the war. They could be worse than the former or they could be kinder. But the only thing that was clear, it wasn’t an election process. The position would fall to whoever was willing and able to take and keep it.

“It’ll be Reagan Snow,” I had said.

“She might not be--” Plutarch had started.

“She’s been taking care of her grandfather,” Finnick stated matter of fact, “Staying close to him. I’m sure she’s learned from him. They’d want to keep that power in the family. Keep the legacy alive.”

“And then what?” Peeta asked, his voice on the verge of shaking, his bruised hand falling from its perch over his mouth. “What about Ivy?” He glanced to me, a memory of our previous agreement reminding me of the plan. No more propos until Ivy was safe. But now there was no way of knowing if she would be kept alive, if Reagan would see any use for her.

No one could answer him, because nobody knew what was going to happen.

At the end of the meeting Peeta and I went our separate ways without much conversation. I watched him walk ahead of me, broad shoulders raised and tight, bearing more weight than anyone could or should carry alone. My fingers twisted around where my wedding band used to be, the skin no longer lighter than the rest of my hand from where it used to reside, like it wasn’t even there.

Peeta moved to a single unit while I was gone. One he went back to after we parted from the meeting while I went to our old unit alone. And I sat in that unit waiting for him to come back, possessions in hand, standing at the door coming home, to me. But he didn’t. And I didn’t find him to ask him to come back even if that was what I wanted to do.

And now I stand alone in a crowd, thoughts running wild, my nightmare repeating, threatening to come to life. What if Reagan killed Ivy? What if someone else took power and they did something worse? What if Ivy’s dead and everything I’ve done, everything I’ve had to do, was all for nothing?

I struggle to catch my breath, the faces around me swimming into a blur as my fingers twitch and tremble. What if I’m about to see my daughter’s dead body on the screen? My legs almost buckle at the thought as everything spins and feels like it’s colliding onto me like chains dragging me underground.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t even repeat my mantra until a calloused hand finds mine.

“Follow me,” Peeta says, wrapping his fingers tightly around mine, securing me to the moment. He leads me away from the crowd and I find I can breathe for the first time since I woke up.

We pass through the throngs of people still silently working their way into the large gathering room. Coin stands on a balcony with Plutarch, Effie and Haymitch. They’re all deep in some kind of discussion, their faces fracturing into varying levels of concern and worry. Effie masks her fear the best, but there’s something frazzled in the way Haymitch’s hands move as he talks to Coin.

Gale steps up to join them a moment later and I turn to watch the back of Peeta’s head as he guides me down an empty hallway and towards stairs. There’s grey in the blonde, more now than there was before and it feels like the first time I’ve truly noticed.

“It’s an old office but there’s a screen,” he explains as he opens the door and I let go of his hand to step inside.

“I found it when I was…it doesn’t matter.” He shrugs, “I figured you wouldn’t want the looks. That it would be…not easier but…I just thought you’d rather not have to see anyone.”

“Thank you,” I say giving him a small smile, my voice thick with emotion.

He makes to leave but I grab the sleeve of his shirt. My fingers tightening around the fabric and keeping him in place as the anthem starts to play. He turns to look at me and I don’t need to ask, I don’t need to beg, he knows he can’t leave, that neither one of us can watch this alone.

He closes the door and I let go of his sleeve as he moves to slide a chair from behind a desk for me to sit on. I do as he props himself up on the desk, his knee grazing against mine while Caesar Flickerman’s solemn face appears.

“What do you think’s going to happen to her?” I ask but he doesn’t need to answer.

Ivy is the first thing we see as Caesar remarks about solidarity in shared grief. She stands with Reagan Snow both dressed in black as they stand above the gathered crowd in the training center. There are flashes of Victors sitting in one of the first rows, Cashmere included, though her eyes seem to watch Ivy more than anyone else.

Every seat is filled in the stands, with the open area usually reserved for the arrival of the Chariots swarmed with people as well. Wailing and crying can be heard throughout as handkerchiefs wave around in an overly dramatic display, even Caesar takes his moment to tear up and fan his face.

The crowd parts as music plays and a white casket is wheeled in on it’s own set of Chariots. Four horses pulling it like they would a king. Laurels of roses cover the casket in shades of red, blue, and yellow, built up like a mountain of love and devotion.

Petals are thrown from the crowd as the casket wheels past, raining down from the stands. Reagan and Ivy remain standing in place, watching the proceedings with controlled expressions. There are Peacekeepers securely behind them, surrounding the front of the parapet and covering every entrance and exit, in case anyone would dare make a move against the new President. Against Reagan.

It’s clear this is as much a coronation as it is a farewell.

The casket stops before a large pyre of wood. Avoxes lift the casket the pyre, securing it in place as the crowd falls silent. They turn towards the microphone on the parapet above them as Reagan steps up to speak. She feigns deep grief, choking on a sob that would make even Finnick Odair look like a bad actor.

“I want to thank you all for coming today to celebrate the life of my grandfather. He was a great man, an honorable and generous President. Despite the lies these Rebels are trying to feed you, he kept us safe and strong, he made us a better Panem. I only hope to make his legacy proud.” There’s applause, polite and measured before Reagan nods to the Peacekeepers. They step forward, a proud line below the parapet and they fire guns into the air, saluting the fallen President.

And in one fell swoop Reagan’s secured her place as President. Everyone in the crowd knows it. Her words are a challenge, try to take it from me, see what happens. Her hand grips Ivy’s shoulder and I see the hooks again, digging deep and stealing my daughter away.

Reagan gives Ivy a sharp smile and small nod and it looks like Ivy could collapse under the weight. She looks small and fragile, her hands shaking, her skin so pale she might as well blend into the walls around her. Her wide eyes glance to the casket like a frightened child before they fall to the ground, a slight twitch from pain as Reagan’s grip tightens. I catch it, but to everyone else, to Caesar, who remarks on what a nice sight it is to see Victors uniting in grief, she just looks sad like everyone else.

The drums start, rolling and rumbling, picking up in volume as someone makes the long walk from the end of the training center towards the pyre. They carry a torch that burns brightly against the sea of people dressed in black.

I see the face of the carrier and find that it’s Cain, the tribute who killed my son. I straighten at the sight of him, like if I could I would reach through the screen and kill him where he stands. He keeps his face passive as his hands grip the torch like he’s in pain. His steps are mechanical, like he’s trying not to think. He keeps his eyes forward, staring at the pyre, at the blank wall behind it and nowhere else, like he can’t look anywhere else.

In Two when you burn the dead it’s to honor them. It means they died a warrior, with dignity and valor. It means they earned their place in memory and in the afterlife. It means they’re worthy of history. On my Victory Tour Peeta and I had to witness the burning of Cato and Clove.

Almost all of Two’s Tributes are burned. The Arena is the highest honor they can receive, a chance to win or die well. The ones who aren’t burned, the ones who run from the fight or who fight like cowards, they’re buried and given graves with names for everyone to walk by and see, to know that the person lying underneath wasn’t worthy.

And Cain is the one who has to give President Snow the honor of fire.

I notice a deep welt over Cain’s eye as he keeps the torch upright and marches towards the casket. And for the first time I feel pity for the tribute who killed my son. For the first time I find I have no hate in my heart for the Career from Two.

The drums stop as Cain lowers the torch and sets the pyre ablaze, joining the Peacekeepers before the parapet.

Reagan pushes Ivy forward forcing her to stand before the microphone.

“In Twelve we have a tradition,” she says, her voice small and shaking, her eyes flicking from person to person in the crowd. She looks like a mouse caught in a trap. “To…to s-say goodbye to someone who means…to say goodbye,” she repeats, struggling on the words.

“No,” Peeta whispers. I glance from him back to the screen wondering what fresh worry he’s seen in this Hell of watching our daughter deteriorate and support the Capitol on live television.

Ivy’s eyes close and she takes a deep breath, lifting her three middle fingers to her lips before raising them above her head.

It feels like I’ve been punched right in the gut.

The breath leaves my lungs. Peeta’s mouth forms a hard line while his hand finds mine on instinct, neither one of us able to tear our eyes from the screen. Reagan wears a satisfied smile behind Ivy, no longer keeping up the appearance of grief.

The fire burns bright as the flames catch on the casket, smoke filling the air. Cain watches the fire. Ivy watches the ground. Both unable to look anywhere else as Capitol citizens begin to follow her lead, lifting their hands, cheering and mocking me from where I sit in Thirteen.

I feel like I’m going to be sick.

Ivy drops her hand, standing a little straighter and shaking her head like she’s trying to remember something. She looks at the hands before her as the drums pick up in a frenzy of volume and speed while the flames rise up and devour the casket as Capitol citizens shout and cheer and chant.

“Snow! Snow! Snow!”

And the chanting isn’t just for their former President, but their new one.

“Snow! Snow! Snow!”

Ivy blinks and looks at Reagan, a slow method in her movement, like she’s waiting. Reagan is lost in the crowds cheering, waving and accepting her new role with a measured poise.

“Snow! Snow! Snow!”

Ivy runs for the microphone, grabbing it before the Peacekeepers have a chance to react. She starts shouting her words lost in the drumming and the chanting. But the crowd freezes, hands half in the air, half fallen as the drums cut off completely.

She looks around, eyes wide and clear as she repeats, “They’re coming. They know where you are! They’re going to attack you! Mom! Dad! They’re going to attack Thirteen!” Her eyes find the camera, “Run!”

She’s thrown to the ground by Peacekeepers as the crowd starts shouting and standing in confusion. Angered and horrified by the outburst of their princess as more Peacekeepers descend into the crowd to remove the Victors and maintain order. Reagan rips the microphone from Ivy’s hand as the screens cut out.

The alarms blare a second later.

We move with the crowd, rushing towards the designated barrack underground that’s designed to keep everyone safe. Soldiers guide and yell over the alarms with a voice repeating the time on when the doors will close.

“One minute,” the voice announces and everyone moves a little faster.

I look around trying to find a sign of Prim or Rory in the fray.

“Prim!” I call over the alarms, scanning each frightened face for my sister but I can’t find her. We are inside the shelter a moment later as the voice announces, “Forty five seconds,” and I still don’t see my sister in the crowd.

Citizens from Thirteen and then the patients from medical pile in but still Prim isn’t there. I see Rory and baby Oliver a moment later standing with Posy but no Prim.

I look from them to the doors and as the voice announces “Thirty seconds,” I run back out.

“Katniss,” Peeta yells behind me, much too close to still be in the shelter.

“I have to find Prim,” I tell him, “Wait here.” I start running, heading up the stairs as the alarms continue and into an empty hallway.

 “No, I’m going with you,” Peeta says and I stop in my tracks.

I want to argue. I want to tell him to stay behind. I can’t worry about both him and Prim. But there isn’t much time and truth be told I’ve missed him by my side even as broken as he was, as we both were. Some of the light is back in his eyes, despite everything, and the determination with it. There’s no room for argument.

“Fine,” I say as I run to find my sister with Peeta’s heavy footsteps following.

I turn the corner to see Gloss with two small children no older than three or four. Snot and tears run down their faces as he holds one over each shoulder, carrying them with ease. He looks like a giant compared to them.

“Excuse us,” Gloss says with a curt smile as he carries them towards the end of the hallway. Emery follows, dragging a four year old with her by the hand.

“Kid, do you want to die?” she barks as she drags him along, “Work with me here.”

I shout for Prim as we collide with straggling denizens of Thirteen. A small crowd of them lost in blind panic. I’m thrown to the ground as four of them run over me while the alarms continue on. I cover my head, protecting myself as much as I can, hearing Peeta yell and shove people aside.

Peeta pulls me up a second later but I can feel the pain starting in my legs. I’ll be bruised. His hands grab my face as his eyes check to see that I’m okay, the worry bleeding through from his soul to mine.

“I’m okay,” I croak out. I nod to him reassuring and he drops his hands. When we turn Prim rounds the corner, holding a stuffed bear with a missing eye.

“Oliver can’t sleep without it.”

I grab her arm, ignoring the ache in my side as I do so and run back down the hall with her in tow. I don’t need to make sure Peeta is following, it’s just like the Arena, I know he’s there. I know that wherever I go, he does too.

“Ten seconds,” the voice announces and the walls shake with the blast of a dropped bomb.

We keep running, the voice counting down as we hurry down the stairs.

“Three.”

We’re at the final landing.

“Two.”

The doors are closing in front of us. I shove Prim through while Peeta and I crash in behind her.

“One.”

The doors seal shut behind us.

The night drags on as bombs keep falling, first in quick succession and then slower, by what I can only assume is after midnight one falls with long silences in between before another and then nothing after.

Still, I don’t sleep. I just watch the ceiling, wondering if it’s going to come down on us. If no matter what happens, no matter how protected we think we are, it won’t matter.

I keep imagining Ivy being thrown onto the stage, raising her hand above the crowd, celebrating President Snow.

“If she hadn’t warned us, a lot of people wouldn’t have made it in here,” Peeta says as he looks around at the families huddled together, most of them asleep by now, including Prim, Rory and Oliver, the stuffed bear nestled beside him.

We sit next to each other on the bottom bunk of our barrack. Peeta hasn’t moved from my side since all this began and I don’t think he means to ever again.

My eyes find Gloss standing beside a sleeping Emery. She turns in the top bunk as he pulls a blanket over her, chewing on his nails and sitting on the bottom. The kids they helped drag in here sit in the bunks across from them, their parents holding them as they watch the giant Victor who saved them with wide eyes.

“Go to sleep,” he tells them and they laugh as he ruffles their hair and do as he says.

Emery sits up and leans over the railing to pat her father’s shoulder. He half smiles before lying down and closing his eyes. She keeps watching him, rubbing her own tired eyes, half drifting as another bomb falls and he sits up again.

“But they’re still going to look at her like she’s a traitor.”

“Maybe not. She saved them.”

“At least someone in this family managed to help,” I say bitterly.

I hear someone cough further down the aisle and two kids laugh as they shine flashlights at each other.

“You don’t talk about it,” Peeta says quietly. “Sometimes you start to, but when we were married—“

“We’re still married.”

“You know what I mean. You don’t talk about what it’s like, what it’s been like. You haven’t been honest about it, not with me. You can lie to them but please, don’t lie to me.”

“What am I supposed to say?” I ask him, keeping my voice measured and low so the sleeping people around us don’t wake up. “Do you think knowing is going to make anything better?”

“I think we’ve been keeping things to ourselves more than enough and maybe the truth is what we need now, to move forward.”

I swallow and feel my eyes sting at the words. There are private Hells we go through and there’s the shared one we’ve been in. Being forced to get married, becoming a symbol, there are things we don’t talk about, that I haven’t talked about in a while if ever. Not to him. Not to anyone.

“I never wanted to be the Mockingjay, Peeta. I didn’t want people looking up to me or expecting me to be their hero, I just wanted to survive the Games. I wanted to come home. I wanted to keep Prim and you alive. I didn’t want any of this. But you already knew that. Everyone knew that. Especially when I…”

“Katniss no one can blame a seventeen year old girl for being afraid and wanting to live.”

“But that’s not what happened. I stopped being a kid the day my dad died and when we went into that Arena. And after…”

He watches me, waiting for me to get to the real truth, the things we started to discuss but never really scratched the surface of.

“It’s okay,” he reassures. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t want to be married. I didn’t want to have kids. Ever. With the Games especially after we won I knew what was going to happen to them. And Snow sent us the letter and I knew he wasn’t going to stop. He would do something to Prim or my mom and that was the excuse I gave to myself at first but…”

He watches me and the confession pours out, “There was this moment. We got the message and you were so mad you just ripped it up. You had the lie all ready to go like you knew it was coming, like you had been waiting for it, so you could keep me safe just like you did in the Arena just like you did when I was starving. You were ready to protect me and us. I remembered before the wedding how you told me to just look at you. Forget the cameras, forget the people, and just see you. So that’s what I did. I let myself imagine what it would be like to have your child and I wanted it. I forgot that we weren’t just two people who loved each other and got married and I wanted that life with you.”

I feel the tears threaten and I’ve never admitted it to anyone before, why I just let it happen. It wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t just because of a threat. I wanted them with him.

“And I know it was selfish when I knew what the Capitol would always do. But I wanted them. I wanted to have them with you. And I can’t hate myself for it anymore. I’m so tired of hating myself for it. I wish I hadn’t pushed them away for as long as I did because I wanted them and I was afraid of how much I did. I didn’t want to lose them, but I still did.”

And then the tears begin and Peeta’s arms close around me to give me warmth and light despite the darkness closing in.

“It wasn’t wrong of you to want them. It wasn’t wrong to want to be happy. We were happy.”

I sink further into his embrace, “I wanted to be the one to kill him. I should have been. I tried to do the right thing. I tried to keep people safe. But it didn’t matter. The Games just go on and now I’m the Mockingjay and he’s dead but Reagan’s in charge. It just goes on and on. None of it mattered.”

“Yes, it did.” He wipes the tears from my eyes, keeping his palm there, and I nod. “War doesn’t last forever. We’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay and so will Ivy. You’ll be happy again. I promise you that.”

“How?”

“Coin will get Ivy back. She’ll have to. And when she does you take Ivy and run. No matter what, no matter how all this ends, you run and you get away from everything. You’re smart you can hide out in the woods and they will never find you.”

“What about you?” I ask, afraid of what the plan is for himself. I remember the conversation I had with Bas, the dream or the hallucination version of him, whatever it was.

He half-smiles, “I managed in the Arena pretty okay without you before, I can do it again.”

“You think the Rebels are going to lose,” I say, realizing the finality in his words, he doesn’t mean to go it alone, he means to die to make sure Ivy and I get away.

“Two is still working with the Capitol. One is following their lead. Eventually under Reagan they will overrun the smaller districts or just bomb them out,” He takes a deep breath, shaking his head, “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but it helps to have a plan.”

“And what if we don’t get Ivy back?” I ask, my voice falling.

“Then I’ll destroy the Capitol, every last brick,” he says in a low hardened voice.

“We’ll destroy it,” I say, my eyes finding his as they burn into me.

“Together,” he says and it feels like the train, it feels like every moment since. The two of us facing the world together, facing the uncertainty and the pain.

“Always,” I tell him, remembering that night I asked him to stay on the train. And I’ll ask him to stay a thousand and one times, every day and every night, I can’t push him away anymore. We’re in this together. Always, together.

His lips find him as he kisses me. It’s chaste and sweet and it reminds me of when we were younger. I savor it as it deepens and warmth floods from my stomach to my heart and my breath is stolen away. I return the kiss with hunger. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed his hands, his smell, everything about him.

“I missed you,” I tell him my forehead resting on his as we catch our breath.

“Me too.” He smiles despite everything. Despite the pain, the tears, the heartbreak. I know it’s still tearing him apart, Ivy not here, Bas gone, but there’s something else beneath that, there’s hope. And I have it too.

The dandelion in the spring. He carries it in him.

Beck –

“Anyone watching?” Springer asks as I peer around the corner of the barracks. Most of the people around us are asleep and those that aren’t are more concerned with watching a crack that formed on the ceiling. A bomb hasn’t fallen in a while but still they’re afraid the ceiling is going to collapse.

I shake my head and Springer digs a screwdriver into the tracking bracelet on my wrist. He opens a small clasp and attaches some wires from a small handheld device. He types and rips a piece of metal from the bracelet.

“Stupid,” he says to himself as he glances to the cracked ceiling. “The support is holding. Scared for nothing.”

“Well, they don’t know that it’ll hold. Maybe you should tell them.”

“They won’t listen to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because no one listens to me. My aunt listened. She understood. She’s gone now.”

I haven’t heard him talk about Wiress well, ever, but I suppose if there was ever a time to bring her up, it was now. Beetee takes care of him, cares for him just as he cared for Wiress, just as he cares for a lot of people.

“Beetee listens to you,” I tell Springer as he closes the clasp. He rubs the screwdriver between his hands, digging it into the floor to no effect.

“He does,” Springer admits, “He’s scared too. For me. Afraid I’m going to die. They’re all afraid of dying.”

“You’re not?”

He shrugs, “Dying will happen whether I’m afraid of it or not. That will work now. I can change the time and location from here.” He waves the handheld device. “Built it myself. Networked it and everything.”

“Thank you.”

“Wish I could get back to work. I need to get the box, stop the signal, get inside. Beetee and I have all the tools just have to work the problem.” He taps the screwdriver on the ground. “Frequencies…too many…too protected but in between…too much power…in between…disrupt the signal…lights out!” Springer claps his hands as he jumps up, his eyes wide, “No power. Get inside. Find the signal, own the signal, power disruption…no signal.” He runs towards the door but he’s stopped by a guard.

“You can’t leave until morning,” The Guard says.

“The bombs are done. They don’t see us, I have to work, let me leave.”

“Not until morning,” The Guard pushes Springer back.

“Do you want to get her killed?!” Springer shoves the Guard only to be punched in the face.

“Hey,” I interrupt, stepping in between Springer and the Guard.

“He…”

“He was in the Arena,” I say as if that will explain everything. There’s a certain amount of sympathy the people in Thirteen give the Tributes and Victors, like we’ve been attacked by some unspeakable evil that they give us a lot of pitied looks for. If I have to endure the looks I might as well use it to my advantage. And Springer’s.

“I’m sorry. Just…it’s only a few more hours until dawn, then he can go right back to the shop. It’s for his safety. Please remind him of that.”

I give the guard my best smile as I wrap an arm around Springer, “Thank you for protecting us.”

I guide Springer back to the corner, my smile falling, “Just wait it out.”

“The signal. They don’t understand.”

“They will. It’s only a little longer.”

“Every second matters, you saw the funeral too…they’re doing something…she didn’t look the same.”

“No, she didn’t,” I admit and I remember the flick of Ivy’s eyes, the fear, the blanched skin and shaking demeanor. Whatever is happening is only going to get worse now that she warned everyone. There was a small amount of pride that emerged when she ran for that microphone, hope that she was still fighting. That no matter what they were doing she was still there, but that hope faded with each bomb and each new thought of what price she was paying for her bravery.

I scratch at the scar from the IV needle. They took it out earlier this morning which was a nice reprieve and gave me another fifteen minutes of time, not that it matters now. Since I’ve been allowed out I’ve been spending more time with Springer, watching him work to save Ivy, to save everyone really.

Everything he builds or tries to build is all designed to end the war, to isolate, to win. He’s been obsessing with destroying the Capitol’s signal, with stopping them from being able to deliver broadcasts. Cutting them off from everyone else, even when we can own the signal for a short time, destroys their ability to continue with messages of support and pretending like they’re winning.

Stopping their communication would isolate Two and by destroying Two, One would follow, the Capitol would be entirely cut off and it would just be a matter of taking it.

Sometimes I let myself drift to the idea of after the war, of winning the war and letting myself be happy. But I don’t know if that could ever truly happen, if I could ever be free and at peace. My thoughts wander to that dream of Ivy and I on a boat, safe and sound, with nothing chasing us, nothing threatening us, just us, together and happy.

But I saw her at the funeral and I see myself in the mirror, the tired, sunken eyes and the scars. I don’t know if happy is ever going to be a reality.

Springer taps his head and repeats equations and writes in the air with his finger. I know he’ll be doing this for a while and there’s no chance he’ll run for the door again, so I decide to leave. I wonder why Springer is so committed to saving her, why he’s more worried about Ivy than anything else. He mentioned seeing her brother in the Arena once, Bas had hid in one of his spaces and Springer warned him about the traps and Bas had shared his food.

But I don’t see how that translates to Ivy, how saving her has anything to do with what happened in the Arena. But I don’t pretend to know what’s going on in Springer’s head and I won’t ask. I’ve learned that Springer will share what he wants to share when he wants to and asking only closes him off and buries him inside his head more. So I don’t ask and he doesn’t ask me about anything that I don’t want to share.

We’ve spent time in silences as I hand him tool after tool and I don’t need to think or feel anything. There’s a peace I can’t find in other spaces which I’m grateful for. I’ve been trying to practice throwing tridents as my side heals up, careful not to over exert as the monitor would warn medical. Now that Springer’s fixed it I can train how I want to, I can prepare to go to war like I want to.

I pass down the aisle of beds to find where my parents and I were assigned. My father sits up tying knots while my mother sleeps, her hands covering her ears. When the bombs were going off she held it together as long as she could, longer than I thought she would, and eventually I had to put my hands over her ears to keep the noise out as well. When they stopped she calmed down, though she kept shaking until well into the night.

“I’m glad she’s resting,” I tell my father as I sit across from him. My mother’s feet are propped up on his thighs even as she’s curled into herself like she’s reminding herself that he’s there even as she sleeps.

He nods as he pulls the knot tight and then apart, starting again. He hasn’t said much since the bombs ended, since my mother fell asleep.

“She told you I heard you both, didn’t she?” I ask and I remember hearing my father talk about how he wanted to film a Propo, how he was going to make everyone see who President Snow really was, but he never got the chance before President Snow died and now I don’t know if he’s going to anymore. “About the Propo.”

He nods, pulling the rope through a loop and wrapping it.

“Are you still…”

“I don’t know.” He puts the rope down. “I don’t know if it’s even going to matter now.”

“It might. If people hear about what he did, what I’m sure Reagan Snow is going to continue, what the Capitol is really like. It’ll make people see, people who don’t know.”

My father swallows hard as he picks the rope up again.

“You’re afraid.”

“Yes,” he admits after a long silence, ripping the knot apart. “Yes, I’m afraid. For you. They’ll know about you and they’ll...”

“You knew it was going to happen when you were going to do it before. What’s changed?”

“I knew what I was dealing with before. That I could protect you but now President Snow is dead. If we lose, if it means nothing…they’ll take you like they took her and they’ll…it’ll be worse. I saw Reagan Snow year after year, I saw her idolize Katniss and then hate her and I watched her grandfather mold her into this ruthless calloused thing and she likes it. She’s worse than he could have ever hoped to be. You saw the show she put on at the funeral, what she had Ivy do, and that’s just the beginning. She’s much more patient than he was and he waited two decades to hurt all the Victors he hated. What do you think she’s going to accomplish with a war and after?” He takes a steadying breath, glancing to my mother to make sure she’s still asleep. I watch my father’s hand shake and it’s not the first time I’ve ever seen him afraid but it is one of the few times he’s admitted it to me, that I don’t see him as just my father but as the person he is beneath the title.

“Dad,” I place my hand on his, holding it there and taking the rope from him. “If her grandfather knew, she already knows too. I can handle a target on my back. I won’t let them take me. Neither will you or mom. And you can hide and no one’s going to blame you for doing that but you will blame yourself. You said it before, you owe it to yourself to get the truth out there.”

We both fall silent.

“How are you so smart?”

“I’m not really, I’m just…an Odair and we’re really good at talking.” I smile and he returns it, pushing me slightly so I fall back onto my mattress.

“And making smart ass comments and not sleeping like we should be.” He puts his hand over my eyes until I close them. “Goodnight.”

“Yeah, right.” I say as I open them again and sit up. He tosses me some rope and we sit in silence tying knots together and I find another kind of peace in this moment. My worries fade with each tie of the rope as I sit a thousand feet underground far away from my home.

Katniss –

There’s rubble all around from the parts of Thirteen that were blown out, light peering in to the surface levels from all sides. The damage isn’t too bad despite the amount of bombs, like they just hit every area they thought we were without really knowing. There were no casualties thanks to Ivy’s warning, something that even the people of Thirteen who still whisper traitor can admit they’re grateful for, just as Peeta said they would.

After the all clear was issued Coin made sure to tell me that she would thank Ivy if she could, along with giving me an assignment, tell the people that we’re alive and we’re here, that they couldn’t destroy us.

“Naturally,” Peeta had said, watching her walk around to greet the people of Thirteen, Gale beside her speaking in hushed tones before she nodded and he ran off. I haven’t seen him since but he made sure to check on Rory and Posy before he disappeared to wherever he’s gone to.

“Where are you all off to?” Johanna had asked, catching up to us as we made our way to leave. “Filming another big hero speech. Get the troops motivated. Run into the line of fire. Die for me. That kind of thing?”

“No, not that kind of thing. They want to know we’re alive, we have to give them hope,” Peeta told her as I kept walking.

“Oh hope, well if it’s about hope, I’d love to watch you tell the families of dead soldiers to have hope.”

I stayed ahead, keeping my head up, walking towards the light as she followed, mocking hope all along the way.

Pollux pushes a rock out of the way as we step over a piece of wall into a bright clearing. My eyes adjust and all around me I see green leaves and vines that were dropped.

Ivy.

On top of the Ivy there are white roses covering the clearing, delivered just for me. I freeze up as Cressida starts rolling the cameras and I hear a sharp intake of breath behind me.

“Someone’s sending a message,” Johanna says in a grim voice and there’s no sarcasm in it, no comments about hope to follow. She just stands behind me as I nod in agreement. Peeta picks up one of the roses and crushes it in his hand getting the message just as clearly as I do.

“Katniss whenever you’re ready,” Cressida says with a wave of her hand, “I’m alive, everyone’s safe.”

My eyes watch the mixture of green and white, the world around me fading and buzzing. Whatever I do Reagan will take it out on Ivy. And it’ll go on and on until, instead of a message, she drops my daughter onto the ground of Thirteen, bloody and broken and dead. It doesn’t matter what I do, what I say, Ivy will pay for it. And I knew it before but this is clear, this is I know you’re watching, I know you see her, and you won’t see her again if you keep this up.

“Katniss, I’m alive and everyone’s safe.”

“Would you shut it?!” Johanna shouts. “Don’t you get what all this means?” She picks up a handful of ivy and roses and tosses it at Cressida, “Or do you just want your footage and to Hell with everyone else?”

“That’s not…”

“Her daughter pays for everything she says and you keep asking her to say more. What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s the cost of war. We can’t stop when we haven’t won yet.”

Johanna barks at that, shaking her head, “I can’t believe you’ve been putting up with this,” she says to me and for the first time there’s genuine sympathy in her hardened voice and it inspires me to stand up a little straighter.

“It’s a cost Ivy isn’t paying anymore. I’m done. I won’t say another word.” I turn back inside.

“Neither will I,” Peeta says as he follows me back down into Thirteen.

I break off from Peeta as I feel my breathing shorten and my hands tighten. I start to hear Ivy crying again and see Reagan smile while hooks claw into my daughter’s skin. I feel the bite of the cold as I come upon Ivy laying down on the ground freezing to death. I keep running as I hear myself tell her to keep fighting, to not let them win. I see her standing with her fingers raised, with a dress covered in blood. I see her standing in the Arena as she fights to survive and I can’t save her. I see her being crowned a Victor and standing before the museum all alone. And I can’t do anything to help her. I did this to her. I can’t save her.

I find a dark corner and I hide, trying to forget that it’s my fault, trying to forget that I made her, that even if the message was given to me I had a choice to lie and I didn’t. I had two children and I destroyed them and I destroyed Ivy more with each word that I said.

Everything that happens to her in the Capitol is because of me and my words.

“Hiding?” Haymitch asks in the darkness and I open my eyes as he sits in the small corner beside me. “Gotta say it is a bitch to find you around here but you always go to the same places.” He smiles.

“What do you want?” I ask, my voice hollow. “I’m not doing any more Propos and you can’t convince me.”

“I didn’t come here to convince you. I came here to…” There’s regret that deepens the wrinkles on his face.

“You can apologize a thousand times but you still lied to me.”

“I’m not going to apologize and that grudge looks real good on you, Sweetheart, but you can bury it now along with a few others because I’ve got news.”

I stay silent waiting for him to continue.

“Capitol power grid is out. Springer built this…I don’t know what the Hell it is but it was sent to Three they got it to the water turbines and knocked out the Capitol power.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, my voice rising and my heart pounding.

“It’s for a rescue mission. Led by your old pal.”

“Gale.” I stand up and start running, unsure of where and what’s going to happen, but knowing that I need to see it. I need to know.

They’re rescuing Ivy. They’re bringing my daughter back to me.

 _“Bury me in armour_  
 _When I'm dead and hit the ground_  
 _My nerves are poles that unfroze_  
  
_And if you love me, won't you let me know?_  
  
_I don't want to be a soldier_  
 _Who the captain of some sinking ship_  
 _Would stow, far below.”_

\- Violet Hill – Coldplay


	10. The Rebellion: Return - Katniss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rescue goes ahead, the consequences of which will leave everyone reeling.

The Rebellion: Return – Katniss

I stumble around a corner, charging at a breakneck speed to find Peeta. By now the residents of Thirteen should be used to seeing me like this. Running, eyes wide, breathless, shouting for Peeta or Prim, it feels like that’s almost all I’ve done aside from passing through like a ghost in my quieter moments.

I push past two women, one hits the wall in her effort to avoid me but I don’t stop. This is too important. I can’t stop.

No one in Thirteen seems to understand the world has stopped spinning. It’s no longer moving and it won’t move again until the end, until Ivy is back here with me.

And Peeta needs to know. Coin is living up to her word and they’re bringing our daughter home.

I see Effie in my frantic search, she puts her arms on mine, trying to calm me down while I catch my breath in an effort to form words.

“What’s happening?” She asks, cutting through any pleasantries and greetings, her words with an edge, like she knows it’s something about Ivy and she’s afraid of what the message is going to be.

“Peeta…needs to know…they’re…Ivy…rescuing her…where’s Peeta?” I choke out through my ragged breaths. Effie straightens, her eyes widening, fingers twitching as she comprehends my words.

She opens and closes her mouth as she thinks, “This way.” She grips my arm a little tighter as she leads, maintaining her poise and walking with such force and purpose that any crowd we encounter parts much quicker than they ever did while I was running.

Effie guides me through two double doors into a room with mats and dummies set up throughout. A few soldiers flip each other over or practice shooting targets in a gun range that’s silenced by glass doors. I look around, wondering why Peeta would be here and if Effie is as lost to his whereabouts as I am, but then I see him.

“You can pack power in your punches but your speed isn’t as high so when I come at you block and then bam…” Gloss demonstrates, tapping Peeta in the side with a gloved hand. Peeta nods in understanding, mimicking the motion, hitting Gloss with more force.

“Good,” Gloss says, “Get the upper hand.” He punches at Peeta, who blocks each and every one like they’ve done this a thousand times. Peeta dodges and parries until he finds his opening and lands a solid punch to Gloss’ stomach.

“How long have…” I mumble out and Effie just shrugs her shoulders.

“After you left. It seems to be helping both of them.” She clears her throat loudly and I blink, remembering why I’m here. They stop their sparring and Gloss removes his gloves quickly, almost like he’s embarrassed, and scratches at his growing beard. Effie’s right, there seems to be more light in his eyes, less redness, less despair.

Peeta straightens at the sight of me. Maybe he thinks I’m going to be angry but I have nothing to be angry about. We never spoke to Gloss much in the years we saw him or Cashmere during the Games, and One has never been kind to Twelve, but there’s no hatred for him. I’m understanding that the Careers are just pieces too, like all of us, and even if the whispers in Thirteen think he’s going to be a traitor just like me, I know he’s been broken by Snow too.

“Katniss, are you okay?” Peeta asks. “I thought you wanted to be alone after the…I’ve been training, trying to…”

“You don’t have to explain. I get it,” I say and Effie clears her throat again much louder this time.

“Remember why you’re here,” Effie reminds under her breath like she used to so many years ago on the Tour and through interviews. I swallow hard, my throat dry and my heart pounding. If I tell him this it’s real, it becomes something real and much more terrifying. What if it goes wrong? What if they don’t get her? What if it destroys us both? But I can’t keep it from him, he has to know just as I had to know. And God knows I can’t face this alone.

“Katniss,” Peeta asks, watching me in worry.

“They’re rescuing her, Peeta, there’s a team and they’re in the Capitol and they’re rescuing her.” The breath escapes Peeta in one fell swoop as he takes in my words.

“What about Cashmere?” Gloss asks, color in his face, life back in his posture, for the first time he looks like he used to, even with the longer hair and beard. He looks like the Victor he once was.

“I don’t know,” I say quietly and he nods, his mouth forming a thin line as he looks down like he’s praying.

“We have to find Coin. She has to be monitoring, right? We have to see it, whatever she’s seeing. We need to be there,” Peeta says, his mind going a mile a minute and his words spilling like water, unstoppable and fast.

“We’ll go right now,” I tell him and look to Gloss. “I’m sure they’ll tell you if…”

He shakes his head, “No. I have to find Emery. Prepare for the outcome, whatever it is.” He keeps watching the ground as Peeta and I leave with Effie.

I follow the path to the war room, throwing open the doors to find a wall lined with computers and Beetee hard at work with Springer, the two of them monitoring lines of code while Coin watches a larger screen where names and vital signs blink and move across.

I glance to one of the monitors and see Gale on the screen. He clicks a headset beside his throat.

“Approaching the Capitol,” he announces as Coin spares me a glance before turning back to the larger screen.

“Miss Everdeen,” she greets, “Mr. Mellark and Miss Trinket, nice of you to join us.”

“What can we do?” I ask, watching, afraid to breathe, afraid to move a muscle as Springer bows his head like he can’t look at me in case of failure.

“What happened?” Peeta asks, his voice steady and insistent, “Why now?”

“We managed to get the power out in the Capitol,” Coin states, “According to Plutarch’s spies, Reagan Snow is holed up in her mansion, hasn’t come out for days. They moved Ivy to the Training Center.”

“Why?” Peeta asks.

“To set an example after her outburst? I don’t know, but it’s our opportunity,” Coin says matter of fact, pressing a button on the microphone.

“Cleared for exfiltration. Radio silence from this point forward.”

“Copy,” Gale voice crackles through the radio before silence follows.

“What can we do?” I repeat, looking around the room at still bodies, uncertain and unsure.

“Wait,” Coin says, “It’s going to be a long night, Miss Everdeen. We just have to wait and hope it’s successful.”

“That’s bullshit,” I half-shout, shocked at the volume of my voice. Coin turns to me, her face still passive, but a cold shock radiating from her.

“I’m sorry, Madam President, but there has to be something. I can’t just sit around and wait.”

“You can keep her eyes on you,” Beetee announces then clears his throat as Coin’s eyes fall to him, “make sure she doesn’t see the rescue coming. By now she’s surely suspicious, the power’s out, that doesn’t happen and you would be her biggest distraction. You’re the final piece of her legacy, if she kills you, or gets to you, that’s more than her grandfather was able to accomplish.” He clears his throat again, uncomfortable by the stares of those around him.

“Do you think that’ll work?” Peeta asks, his fingers absently tapping against his leg.

“It won’t hurt,” Beetee responds.

“Oh, it might,” Effie says more to herself than anyone else as Haymitch enters, finding a corner to sit in and never taking his eyes off the screen.

No one talks for a while, the only sound the clicking of computer keys and the static from the screens as it jumps and changes with the movement of helmet cameras. Peeta glances between me and the screens and the thoughts run around. Beetee’s right. I would be distracting to Reagan Snow, I would give Ivy the best chance to be rescued, and I would be giving the rescuers more time, no matter what happens, no matter what Reagan says or does. She would talk to me and her threats don’t matter, seeing her doesn’t matter, because it’ll help bring Ivy home.

For years I watched Reagan stand beside her grandfather, I watched the coldness in her eyes mirror his and the pits become something much darker. She asked about Ivy much more often than her grandfather, something covetous in her tone whenever I saw her in the Capitol. She had the idea for the museum and there’s a shudder that runs the length of my spine that knows it was her idea to have Ivy crowned a Victor.

“Okay,” I say.

“Katniss, are you sure? You’ll be talking to Reagan. You don’t know what she’s done, she could tell you anything that she’s done whether or not it’s true and if you believe it, she wins,” Peeta states, rubbing his knuckles, fingers grazing over the bruises.

“I know,” I tell him, my voice dropping, an edge forming in it like I wish it could stab the very heart of Reagan Snow. “For Ivy,” I state and his eyes drop to the ground as Springer programs then hands me one of the radio microphones. He points to a button.

Springer rocks in his chair, rubbing his hands together as he watches a screen with frequencies fluctuating. He shakes his head.

“Needs to hold,” he mutters as he tugs at his hair, “hold, hold, hold,” he repeats like a prayer. Beetee pats Springer’s shoulder.

“It’ll hold,” he states, before glancing between me and the microphone, “Whenever you’re ready, Katniss.”

I notice a camera in front of me and look to Beetee, “Will she?”

“Yes, she’ll see you,” he answers. Peeta paces behind me, his loud footsteps matching the sporadic, racing beats of my heart. I take a step forward and press the button, hearing a click and fizzle of static before I start speaking.

“Reagan Snow,” I announce, my voice much stronger than I anticipated it being, “It’s Katniss Everdeen, I know you can hear me. I want to talk.”

The static remains so I repeat my message with more insistence but still I get nothing. By the fifth time of repeating my message the screen blinks and I see Reagan’s face on the monitor. Her hair is twisted up in a knot and she wears a white suit with a high collar raised making her look even more angled and sharpened.

“You sound desperate,” Reagan starts, taking a sip from a crystal glass with some kind of golden amber liquid swirling inside, “That’s bad form. You should never negotiate out of desperation. Grandfather taught me that.” She smirks and takes another sip from her glass, controlled and regal, everything Snow taught her to be.

“I’m not here to negotiate,” I say, my voice calm despite my shaking hands. What if this goes bad? What if she knows? She could do so much worse.

“No you’re right, the time for making an honorable sacrifice has passed,” she states with a toothy smile that’s all her own and that lacks any semblance of warmth, “As have any hopes for compromise or demands.” She leans in closer to her screen, looking behind me. “Is that Thirteen? It’s much, grimier than I pictured. I almost feel bad for you. Almost.” She takes another sip from her drink, leaning back in her chair, the gleaming office of her Grandfather’s mansion behind her. She looks at home. She looks almost happy in the only way Reagan Snow can look happy, with a cold smile and a glass of something expensive.

 _Her castle. Her kingdom_. That’s all I can think.

“I did feel bad for you, once,” I say and I truly did, she was trapped in the mansion, she was trapped in her family and there was a moment when I saw a little girl who didn’t want to be there, but she became a woman who did, who thrived in it. And I didn’t feel bad for her anymore.

“You don’t have any right to feel bad for me,” she snaps and for a moment I think she might crush the glass, “You won the Games but that wasn’t enough was it? You had to ruin my grandfather with berries and your talk of together and loving each other. Where is Peeta by the way, hovering in your shadow? That’s where he always is, isn’t he? Right in the background, there to make you look less like a monster, just like your children, oh I’m sorry, child.” Reagan takes a breath, straightening her shoulder, putting back on the air of diplomacy.

I see Peeta in my peripherals as he turns away, retreating before he hits the screen and ruins this moment. Coin waves her hand, telling me to keep going while Beetee points to the small dots as they hit the training center, coming to a stop. They’re close, the screen showing the helmet cams shake and move as the team propels down the side of the building, windows and walls blurring past them.

“I used to admire you, you know?” Reagan says to me, taking a long drink from her glass, “Used to wear my hair just like you, I even wanted to be in the Games like you, before I really understood my place, what I was meant to do and then it was easy to hate you.”

“You don’t have to be this, Reagan. You can be better than your Grandfather, you can end this war, make it right.”

“Oh please,” she laughs, cold and heartless and it’s chilling, it sounds like her Grandfather’s, humorless and dangerous. “Don’t attempt to appeal to my better angels I have none. My grandfather was weak because of you. He played games, long ones, with patience and ambition but no imagination. And this isn’t a game to me, this is my birthright.”

She stares me down and I see the years pass before me. I see the little girl watch her grandfather and understand far too much and far too easily, her place and what she’s capable of. I watch the light of childhood leave her eyes too quickly and the chill returns. I remember leaving the Capitol after one Games and watched Reagan Snow wave and the next year she wasn’t waving anymore, she watched, like her Grandfather watched.

“Poison is so easy and quick, but Grandfather loved it. I tried it once, it wasn’t satisfying. He destroyed families to keep his Victor’s in line, but if they have nothing to lose, what’s the point? It was too simple, not as well thought out. It makes a statement but it’s nothing in the long run, it just sews the seeds for resentment. I’m not simple. I think things through, know where to push and what will hurt the most, cause waves of pain and suffering so you can’t focus on anything else. Please feel free to stay in Thirteen, my country will go on without you just like it did before.” She smiles again.

“It’s not going to be like before,” I argue and Reagan holds a finger up, taking the final sip from her glass like she’d been expecting me to say something.

“Oh I should think not. Enjoy the gift I left for you and your friends in the Training Center. Remember, there’s no return policy, Miss Everdeen,” Reagan watches and waits for any semblance of a reaction but I hold it together long enough for the screen to go black as my heart sinks.

“We’re in the training cent--,” Gale starts and then we hear gunshots and the helmet cameras cut out and there’s nothing but static.

“What’s happening? Captain?” Coin shouts into the radio but there’s no response. Beetee and Springer move and type and hurry but I can’t hear anything over the rush of blood in my ears.

“What did she do?!” Peeta shouts, marching towards Coin, “What’s happening?”

I take steps back and can barely feel the movement. I bump into Effie who doesn’t seem to notice, she’s too busy watching the black screen, just like me. And I feel it, the unmistakable tearing as another notch of failure is scratched into my soul.

“I-Ivy?” I whisper and Peeta turns to look at me, his eyes searching, hearing me over the commotion. His hands clench and unclench and he’s hanging on by a thread. I can’t breathe, I can’t speak. Did I lose Gale again? Did Peeta and I just lose our daughter too?

The world spins, the clicking of keyboards and static of the screens cutting through to my bones, splintering and fracturing through my bloodstream until it’s the only thing I hear and feel like a message repeating, she’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone.

No.

Ivy can’t be gone. She won’t be gone. I won’t let it happen. I won’t let any of this happen. And if she is…

Reagan Snow will die tonight.

I blink back tears and straighten, my final mission coming to mind before I can really focus on the details. I know what I have to do.

I brush past Haymitch barely hearing him ask me if I’m alright. I push by two soldiers whose names I don’t know and Peeta, not even feeling them as I do. When the doors close behind me I find myself in total silence with no one around and no eyes watching me.

I keep walking, knowing what I have to do and finding the strength to do it. Don’t let them win, that’s what I had told Ivy and I won’t let them win, I can’t let Reagan win. Not anymore, not this time, this time she has to pay.

I push my way through the night crew going about their jobs, there are few of them and they’re far between but the ones I do move past don’t even bother to stop me. I catch Beck wandering the halls, glancing behind doors, trying to find the room I was just in I’m sure. How did he even know the rescue was underway?

I almost want to laugh at the word rescue, how is it a rescue if the Capitol, if Reagan, knew they were there, if she laid a trap, if she killed…I don’t know for sure if Reagan did, but there’s no other meaning to her words, no other reason that Ivy would have been moved if not for us to find her…and I can’t think the thought, I can’t finish with the word that I fear to be true.

Beck looks at me and steps forward like he’s going to stop me and ask but I shake my head and he shrinks back, like he knows it went bad, like he can’t bear to hear the response.

I don’t even think I can bear saying it aloud.

My footsteps echo as I descend the metal staircase, mapping out my plan as I go. This has to be done alone, it’ll be safer alone.

I find the Mockingjay suit in its glass case along with my bow down in Beetee’s lab. I put on every piece imagining every smile and every laugh I’ve ever heard or seen from Ivy. I see the claws from my nightmare again and I hear Reagan telling me of the gift she left, saying she used to admire me as I imagine the smell of alcohol and blood surrounding her.

I throw a large jacket over my suit, pulling the hood over and praying no one sees me go. I don’t plan on coming back, not unless I have Ivy with me.

I feel almost mechanical in my motions, knocking on the door to the unit Prim shares with Rory and Oliver. It opens and I see a tired Prim, wearing her pajamas, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Katniss? What’s wrong?” She asks, her voice scratchy with sleep.

I make to speak but find I can’t form the words. Instead all I do is hug her, holding her tight, saying goodbye in the only way I know how.

“Is it Ivy?” Prim asks in a terrified whisper. I feel the sting in my heart at the thought of her, dying in the Capitol, gone in gunfire and destruction, at the orders of Reagan Snow with no one she knows or loves there to comfort her or tell her goodbye. At least Bas had Ivy with him at the end.

I still can’t speak and as I turn to leave I hear Prim calling my name behind me, but I can’t turn around to look at her. If I do, I’m lost and I may never go through with this, but I know I have to, I know I can’t stop. I can feel it pressing on me like the weight of destiny, calling me to kill Reagan Snow, to end all of this, to finish what I started years ago.

I have nothing left to lose now.

I sneak into the bay passing by hovercraft after hovercraft before landing on one whose course is set for District Two. I can find a way to get to the Capitol from there, it’ll be much easier than walking from Thirteen and I can’t fly a hovercraft on my own.

I wait for my opportunity. Two mechanics check the hovercraft while another wheels crates onto the back. By the time it’s almost finished loading the two mechanics leave and I see my opening.

I make to move but feel strong arms pull me back by the shoulders. I push back, finding Peeta standing before me, watching me, expressionless. We stand at odds, the mechanics continuing their work, the two of us going unnoticed as we stand behind large crates.

“Don’t,” I start, my voice shaking, dangling by a thread, ready to be shredded apart, “Don’t try to stop me.”

“What are you doing?” He asks, his voice barely audible above all the noise in the hangar.

“I have to kill her…she…I have to make her pay.” I take a heavy breath, trying to focus, to find my strength, to bury Ivy and Bas in the back of my mind until it’s done, so I can finish it.

He runs a hand through his hair, his bruised knuckles freshly broken open and bleeding, like he’s been hitting walls again. “Were you even going to say goodbye?” His voice cracks.

“Isn’t that a little repetitive,” I say and he shakes his head, “I can’t live with this, Peeta,” I break and the tears start, “I can’t live without her and Bas and I can’t keep going if she’s gone too. I have nothing left.”

“You have Prim, Haymitch, Effie…and me.”

“She takes and takes, her whole family has and will keep doing it. They destroyed us. She has to pay,” I repeat, sounding like a broken record, but it’s my only excuse, the only excuse I need. Reagan killed our daughter, her grandfather killed our son when he sent him to the Games and kept us under his control for years. I can’t kill Coriolanus Snow but I can kill Reagan, I can take some satisfaction in that.

He smacks his hands against the crate and I glance to the mechanics, both of whom are now looking this way. “And that means dying yourself?! I’m here. I’m here. Katniss, you are all I have left. Please don’t do this. Don’t be this reckless and stupid.

“Reagan Snow will pay. Trust me, she will. But we don’t know what happened, we don’t know if Ivy…and you can’t just go in there with no plan, no backup, nothing…you won’t come back.”

He chokes, wiping at tears and I glance around the crates to see the bay doors of the hovercraft start to close. This is my last chance. The mechanics seem to be calling over the radio to someone but I can make it to the hovercraft in time, they won’t stop me. Peeta won’t stop me.

“I don’t want to come back. Not if…” I take a harsh breath, standing tall, I need to get to the hovercraft. “Get out of my way, Peeta. Reagan Snow dies tonight.”

I go for it but he blocks my path. I push and kick but his arms wrap around me, holding me tight as I shove and punch, his grip only tightening with each attack, each attempt at escape. He really is strong. I keep punching and yelling, watching as the bay doors close and the mechanics run over to help Peeta. He shakes his head and they back up, afraid of the broken Victor from Twelve. The former Girl on Fire. The sad excuse for the Mockingjay.

He takes each hit. He takes the pain, never backing down.

“Ivy wouldn’t want this. Bas wouldn’t want this,” he repeats, “Please. Stop.” And the flood gates open and the Earth shatters around me as I break. My head falls against Peeta’s chest as I sob, broken and empty. We collapse to the floor and I curl into him further, the sobs continuing to wrack through my body, my throat aching with each breath I take.

When the exhaustion has finally crept in and I can no longer cry, Peeta guides me back to our unit. My unit. There hasn’t exactly been time for him to move his things back and if Ivy’s gone, when we learn she’s truly gone, I don’t know that he’ll be able to, that I’ll be able to just go on.

In the end President Snow, both Snow’s, will win. They’ll get what they wanted. Me, broken, begging to die.

He helps me take off the Mockingjay uniform and put my bow and arrows to the side, careful and precise as he does. He pulls a large shirt over my head and lays me down in bed, sliding in next to me and keeping his arms around me.

“I’m here,” he says and I know if I close my eyes he will stay, he won’t run again, I won’t run again. Neither one of us would survive it.

But no matter how safe he tries to make me feel or how tired I am, I can’t fall asleep. I can just stare at the wall, imagining all the times that used to be and the memories I wish I could live in forever.

“Do you remember when Bas hated his shoes so he wouldn’t go to school?” I ask to the darkness and Peeta laughs into my shoulder.

“And Ivy told him if he hated them so much he shouldn’t wear them,” Peeta adds.

“So he walked with her to school and threw them out and the teacher called…”

“And asked why we were sending our son to school without shoes because Ivy told her he didn’t have any.” We both break and start laughing quietly despite the pain. I turn to face him and run a hand down his cheek.

“Do you think we gave them a good life?” I ask, “After everything. Did they know how much I…”

“They knew.”

“What are we going to do about Reagan Snow?” I ask, my voice darkening.

“See what Coin has planned, if she has anything planned, we can’t go in reckless, we have to know where to go and have people with us.”

“I get to kill her,” I say and Peeta nods.

“I’ll keep her in place, give you a still target.” His eyes stare at the wall behind me and he blinks, looking at me, back in the moment.

There’s a sharp and insistent pounding on the door that makes Peeta and I jump. He sits up and heads to the door as I follow, my stomach sinking. Is this the official news then? Is this where it ends?

He opens the door and I half expect to find Coin but it’s Haymitch bursting in, breathless, wringing his hat in his hands, half shaking. Of course it’s him, he saw us through the worst moments and the best moments of our lives, why not add one more? I close my eyes, expecting him to tell us the news, to just spit it out without any pomp and circumstance, no run arounds, as he always does.

But he doesn’t.

Instead he blurts out, “They’re back. The team…they’re back,” he says it like he can’t believe it himself. My heart pounds and I feel the air rush into my lungs like life coming back to me.

“They made it?” Peeta asks like he’s afraid his words will shatter this illusion.

“They’re back,” Haymitch says again like it’s the only words he remembers.

I barely register getting dressed or the movements that carry me to Medical but once I’m there it’s like all my senses have returned in a rush. I see some of Gale’s team receiving oxygen and treatment for minor injuries but no one is dead or seriously harmed.

I look around expecting more chaos where there is none. Cashmere sits up in bed, rail thin, pale as she’s poked with needles and a mask is placed over her face. She watches me, a shadow in her features and she looks away. I hear a commotion behind me as Gloss runs in with Emery and I watch the reunion unfold.

He runs to her, checking over her like he’s afraid to believe she’s real. His hand lands on her shoulder and he starts to cry, I see a tear escape her too. Emery hangs back, watching and despite the mask attached to her face, Cashmere smiles to her niece. She holds a thin, bony, hand up and Emery takes it, glaring at anyone who dares look at the tender moment before she pulls a curtain closed. She’s too used to keeping up appearances, even here, she can’t let that last defense fade.

And then I pass another bed where Cain lies, still unconscious, looking as healthy as he can. He’s bruised up, beaten with scars lining his face, but he’s alive. I freeze at the foot of his bed, afraid to linger, afraid to hear his heartbeat. They rescued him too?

Peeta urges me forward barely sparing a glance but I feel his fingers tighten on my shoulder as we pass.

“I have to see her,” Beck yells as Finnick pulls him away from a large metal door marked isolation. Gale keeps watch at the door, his eyes watching the room around him. He’s dirty with a scratch over his eyebrow but otherwise he seems fine.

“Later,” Finnick tells him, “There’s time.” But there’s something in the look Finnick gives me, some other reason he won’t let Beck in, something that I’m terrified to learn. I see the same look in Gale’s eyes, like there’s some secret I can’t know, that they’re afraid to tell me.

“What happened?” I ask Gale, “After the radio went out.”

“There were some guards waiting, but it was like they didn’t even try, they wanted us to get out and then we did and it’s like they let us go,” His eyes find the floor, his mouth forming a thin line that deepens the wrinkles on his face.

“Gale, what is it?” I ask and he shakes his head. “Is she…?”

“She’s alive,” he says, “She’s in there. She…she was screaming…” He blinks back the memory, like it’s something he’ll never forget.

I can’t ask why a part of me never wants to know why. My fingers tremble as I pull open the door, walking into the isolation room. I feel a chill pass over me as my eyes follow the white wall to the bed where Ivy lays, her arms strapped down at her sides. And it doesn’t make sense, none of it, she’s locked in like she’s a prisoner. She stares at the wall, blinking back tears but alive. Her eyes are sunken, like she hasn’t slept in weeks but she looks otherwise healthy, cared for.

I take another uneasy step, my eyes trained on her breathing, memorizing every detail of her like I’m afraid she’ll disappear right in front of me. I feel Peeta right behind me, his breath catching as his eyes fall on our daughter.

She stares at the wall, hard, closing her eyes as more tears fall.

When I reach the bed my shaking hand brushes her hair out of her eyes. “Ivy?” I ask, my voice catching like saying her name will break her.

“Ivy…Ivy…” I repeat her name as my hands find her hair, her face. I need to make sure she’s okay, that she’s real, that she’s alive. And she is, she’s warm and breathing and here. I wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“I missed you,” I choke out, feeling my own tears fall as I drop to my knees beside her, able to look at her face fully. She blinks away from the wall, her eyes landing on mine.

There’s a moment of silence as she registers who I am.

And then she starts screaming.

She pulls on the restraints, the fear in her eyes echoing with each shout and cry. She kicks and moves her head like my touch burned her and I stand up, backing away.

I hear the door burst open and I see a nurse and Haymitch run in. The nurse whips out a sedative and injects Ivy with it even as she fights. Peeta tries to get to Ivy but Haymitch pulls him back.

“What’s wrong?” Peeta asks, “What’s happening?”

My back crashes into the wall as my hands shake with fear and pain.

Ivy fights against the drugs, crying, her voice heavy, “Please. I want to go home. I want my family. I want my mother.”

“I’m right here,” I tell her, coming closer as Haymitch grabs my arm to stop me from touching her.

And she looks at me, her eyes drifting in and out of focus. She looks at me but she doesn’t see me, it’s like she’s looking through me, like I’m a ghost. She doesn’t know me. She’s afraid of me.

“No. You’re the Mockingjay. You had a son but he died in the Arena, no one else.”

I shake my head and I feel sick. That’s wrong. It’s all wrong. “No, that was your brother. Bas. I’m your mother too.”

She shakes her head furiously, blinking as she tries to understand what I’ve said to her. She shakes her head harder, her breath coming in huffs, “No. No.”

And then the drugs take effect and calm falls over her. She blinks slowly, finding her words through even breathing, “President Snow. My mother is President Snow. Not you.”

_“Little soldier, little insect_   
_You know war it has no heart_   
_It will kill you in the sunshine_   
_Or happily in the dark”_

  * No One Would Riot For Less – Bright Eyes




	11. The Rebellion: Wake Up - Katniss and Ivy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta deal with the consequences of Ivy's rescue while Ivy experiences Thirteen.

_“Truth is like blood underneath your fingernails_   
_And you don't wanna hurt yourself, hurt yourself_   
_Looking too closely”_

  * Looking Too Closely – Fink



 

Katniss –

I lean back against the cold, metal wall of Beetee’s lab, the chill running up my spine. I think I’m going to throw up. The world around me spins and blurs, my insides twist up into knots while my head pounds. I blink but nothing rights itself. The world doesn’t get clearer or calmer. I just feel numb, less real, like I’m fading, like I’m not really here. Everything is muted, the colors blanched and lifeless, the voices of the people around me buzzing but I can’t find any words to cling to, to bring things into focus.

I blink again and again until I find one clear thing in the void, one person to focus on.

Peeta.

He keeps his arms crossed over his chest as he paces. His fingers digging into his skin so hard his forearm turns red from the pressure, he’ll have bruises tomorrow. He moves too fast, his fingers gripping tight, his eyes glued to the floor, thoughts far away in a room we aren’t allowed in.

Haymitch lays a hand on Peeta’s shoulder and he stops pacing. Peeta’s fingers loosen from his wrist as he sinks against the wall opposite me, hands rubbing at his eyes and tearing at his hair before returning to their place covering his arms.

I blink once more. The voices around me come into focus, but still, nothing feels right. It feels shifted to the left by one inch, just wrong enough to feel off even when everything still looks the same.

“We have to run more tests but it seems that President Snow, both of them, used a synthetic type of tracker jacker venom to erase and rewrite her memories,” Beetee says as he cleans his glasses, unable to look at us as he delivers the news.

“What does that mean?” Peeta asks, his voice shaky and quivering.

“They reprogrammed her, for lack of a better word, convinced her that she was someone else.”

“That Reagan was her mother,” I say, lifeless. I want to kill her. I want to rip out her throat, put an arrow in her heart and watch her bleed. I want to watch her die slowly. I could have. She would be dead by now if Peeta hadn’t stopped me.

I would be dead too. I should be dead too.

I can’t help but feel like I deserve this. That after years of trying to keep Ivy at a distance, of making her think I didn’t love her, this is my reward, my just desserts.

“How do we fix her?” Peeta asks, his voice shaking.

Beetee glances from Peeta to me, “I’m working on figuring it out.”

“Work faster.” My voice is dark and commanding, the anger in my heart spilling over to anyone it can reach.

“He will, Katniss, give him time.” Haymitch breathes on his hands and rubs them together to keep them warm. His voice creaks and wavers. My rage dissipates and all I have left is sorrow.

“We don’t have time, any day the Capitol can come knocking on our door, any day they can win. And what happens then?” I ask.

“She might know something, whether she’s aware of it or not,” Beetee starts but Peeta shakes his head.

“We’re not even going there,” Peeta commands.

“But if she does know something, something that could help,” Beetee tries again.

“So you want to what? Treat her like a criminal? Prove whatever lie she believes about us true, that we’re going to hurt her.”

“I didn’t say that, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.” Beetee rubs at his glasses again.

“I won’t allow it.”

“It’s not up to you,” Beetee states flatly, “Sooner or later Coin will see that she might know something or Gale, and they’ll make a decision on what to do, whether to treat or interrogate.”

Peeta steps closer to Beetee, his hands balled into fists, “Let them try, see what happens.”

“Enough,” I start quietly my voice growing as they continue to argue, “Enough!” They all stop and turn to look at me. My voice cracks. “She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know us.” And it’s all I can choke out before everything comes to a standstill. It feels like I’m fading, like I’m falling into pieces and I don’t want anyone to pick them back up.

The door opens and Finnick walks in. He looks around the room, noticing the grim faces and solemn, cold, atmosphere, “How bad is she?” He asks and I wonder how many people know by now. If all of Thirteen knows she’s here and she believes she belongs back in the Capitol, if they’ll look at her and think she’s more of a traitor than ever before and if what Beetee says could come true, if Coin and even Gale could come for her because they believe she has information they need.

My throat dries. I can’t go over it with Finnick, I can’t even think about all of it anymore. Peeta takes a steadying breath and shares the details, as much as he’s able to before his own voice gives out.

“She doesn’t know anyone. She doesn’t remember anyone,” Peeta finishes in a whisper and Finnick sighs deeply and heavily. A part of me knows that his concern lies with how it’s going to affect his son, how he’s going to tell Beck this news, and I’m angry at him for it. I’m angry that he has his family, that they’re here safe and sound. A part of me hates that he’s here.

“I’m going to run my tests, find the best course of treatment,” Beetee shares. I find myself back against the wall, barely listening, the buzz of the world around me shifting and filling my head with white noise.

“And what are we supposed to do until then?” Peeta asks, voice monotone, solemn with an underlying threat. The argument and threat from before unforgotten. I can’t even focus on the danger anymore, I have nothing left to give, no emotion left to feel.

“Convince her?” Finnick offers, “Talk to her?”

Peeta takes in his words but my head is fuzzy, my heart is broken, and I don’t think she’ll let me near enough to even say hello.

“She screamed when she saw me,” I state, “She doesn’t trust me or believe that I…how can I be her mother when she doesn’t know who I am?” I blink back tears, my voice failing as the pain becomes overwhelming.

“Katniss,” Peeta starts but I shake my head and find my way to the door.

“I need quiet…I just need to be away…” And then I’m gone.

I ignore the stares as I make my way back to my room. The world still spins, still buzzes with too much noise and all I want to do is scream. It keeps building from my stomach to my throat, ready to unleash all the pain I feel, all my rage.

When I’m safely back in the living unit, away from the noise, I ball my fists and let it go, screaming and screaming my voice raw. I hear the door open and close behind me but it’s too late, the screaming won’t stop no matter how hard I try to bottle it back up.

I keep screaming long after Peeta’s strong arms wrap around me and hold me close, my back to his chest, his heartbeat in tandem with mine. I keep screaming even as he tells me it’s okay over and over. I keep screaming even when I can’t breathe, even when my throat feels like its bleeding. I can’t stop.

I see the memories they’ve ripped from her, memories I have that she doesn’t. I see her first steps. Her first reaping at twelve, the fear that came with it and the relief when her name wasn’t called. I see her sitting in her favorite tree in our woods. I see her crawling into bed with me after she had a nightmare of her own and Peeta had left for the bakery early. I hear her laugh, I hear her learning to read and sounding out the words with uncertainty as Peeta tells her she’s doing great.

I hear her first word.

“Mama.”

I scream over these memories as they flash before me like a hammer being taken to my already broken heart and all the while Peeta holds me through it, securing me here in this moment so I don’t get lost.

When it’s over, when the pain fades enough to become a dull ache and my voice no longer works, Peeta talks, his arms still wrapped around me tightly.

“We can’t abandon her,” he says quietly, his voice vibrating through my body as he holds me. And I’m reminded of us so long ago when we were on top of a building in the Capitol, about to go fight for our lives, neither one of us knowing how it would all turn out.

“We won’t,” I croak out through my damaged voice, “I won’t.” And I remember after my father died, I remember what it felt like to be abandoned, to watch someone disappear on me. I can’t let that happen to Ivy. I won’t let it happen to her. I can’t build another wall. I can’t hide away from this, not again.

I have to be there for her in a way I wasn’t before. She has to know how much she’s loved, how much she means. She has to remember. I have to help her remember.

We have to help her remember.

Ivy –

“Is anyone there?” I shout to the mirror, to my own reflection staring back at me. I know it’s a window. I know they’re watching. “Hello?! Are you planning on sharing your terms with your hostage?”

I pull against the restraints, my limbs are still heavy from the drugs they stuck me with before and my mouth tastes like cotton, but my strength is coming back. I can’t let them see that I’m afraid. They’ll use it against me. They’ll use it against Mother back in the Capitol. I have to stay strong. The rebels can’t win.

Katniss Everdeen, the monster, can’t win.

I think of my room in the mansion, the comfort of my bed. How did this happen? How did they find me? I was supposed to be protected. I was protected. They must have had an inside source. I hope Mother figures it out. I hope she makes them pay.

I pull harder at the restraints despite the pain and chafing on my wrist. I don’t care. I want out. I have to get out.

I stare at my reflection. I look tired, but I suppose that’s to be expected. I haven’t been hurt, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be.

I look around waiting for someone to come, for them to ask me questions, but they don’t. Maybe they’re starving me out first, trying to get me weak before they do the real damage, before they try to turn me to their cause.

Mother warned me about this. After Great-Grandfather’s funeral, she warned me that the rebels might try something. She said they might make up stories, try to convince me that what I knew wasn’t real. She told me they were liars and they would do anything to get their way, to win.

Katniss Everdeen will try to win, but she will fail, like she did years before.

I’ll kill her if I get the chance. I’ll save the Capitol. I’ll have a day named after me. Ivy Snow Day. Panem will celebrate it.

A wave of unease and nausea comes over me at the thought but I bury it down. It’s just the drugs they gave me. Nothing more.

I keep pulling at the restraints, trying to force them to break. I start to hear ringing in my head as I do, a sharp, painful tone that radiates from my head along my muscles. I close my eyes as the pain burns behind my eyes, a throbbing that feels like my head is going to split in half, but I keep trying to force the restraints.

The door opens and I let my hands drop, the ringing fades, disappearing altogether in an instant. I sit back in my bed as a nurse with blonde hair braided down the side brings in food on a tray. It’s in a bowl with some gray bread on the side of it. I glance at the bowl to see some kind of watery mess with pieces of green in it. I grimace at the smell. Whatever that is, it’s not edible, and I won’t eat it.

I look away despite the growl in my stomach. I’ll starve before I accept anything from them, even food. Mother would be proud of that too. She would be glad I died fighting the rebels, she would be glad I died defending the Capitol.

The nurse swallows thickly, her eyes trying to hide some glassy emotion. I stare at her, recognizing her from the footage. She’s older, but her hair’s the same color, she has the same fear she did at her reaping.

“You’re Primrose,” I say, “Primrose Everdeen.”

“Hawthorne now,” she says.

I shrug, I don’t really care. She’ll always be Primrose Everdeen, the sister of Katniss Everdeen, who volunteered for her in the 74th Hunger Games. “Guess you followed Katniss here, huh? Makes sense.”

Prim holds the bread out but I shake my head.

“I don’t want your food.”

“You need to eat something.”

“I’ll eat when I’m back home,” I say defiantly and there’s a larger pain that crosses behind Prim’s eyes.

“And if no one comes for you?” She asks with a confidence that says her mind’s made up on the matter.

“They’ll come. They won’t let President Snow’s daughter die at the hands of the rebels.” I look at the mirror in front of me, knowing full well that someone is behind the glass watching now, knowing who it is.

“You won’t win, Katniss,” I say to the mirror, to her. Then I look at Prim, “She’s a monster, you know. She only gets people killed. She needs to die.”

“You could do it,” I taunt, “No one would see it coming and I promise you, the Capitol will pay you very well for that and for my safe return.”

Prim shakes her head, the same sad look in her eyes.

I pull at the restraints again, “You know she needs to die!” I start kicking, trying to escape somehow, until I feel a needle stick into my arm. Prim stares at me as the heaviness of the drugs and sleep pushes against me.

“When you die, when all this falls, it’s her fault and yours,” I whisper before fading.

The world comes and goes in a haze. I wake up to see someone taking blood and then they put me asleep again. I hear voices and beeping as machines take scans. I’m not in the white room and then I’m back in it. I wake with an IV in my arm to keep me hydrated and alive. They won’t let me starve.

“Does she really need to say asleep?” I hear a male voice ask, full of sadness and pain, and a part of me recognizes the voice, the tone, but I can’t open my eyes to look at them. I’m lost in the ether of the drugs.

“We can’t have her escaping and hurting someone,” a woman’s voice states, cold and stern. President Coin, I assume. Mother spoke of her, of her wanting to overthrow and kill us, of her wanting to take control of Panem.

“She wouldn’t do that,” the man’s voice says.

“Peeta, we don’t know what she would do. We don’t know what they made her think and we don’t know if someone here would be willing to harm her if they think she’s a traitor,” Coin’s voice states coldly.

Peeta Mellark is here. Of course he is, wherever Katniss goes, he follows. Mother said he’s her weakness and she’s his. The way to destroy them is through each other.

He sounds sad, sympathetic. Maybe he could let me go. He’s the more rational one. Or so it seemed from the footage of their Games. I remember watching it. I remember thinking even if he loved her, she didn’t love him back. He’d be better off without her. He’ll let me go if I ask.

I try to open my eyes but I can’t against the darkness, against the heaviness of the drugs. It’s like a chain wrapped tight around me, pulling me down into an ocean of drug induced sleep. I can’t swim out. The voices disappear and I’m back under, trying to swim up again but unable to find the surface anymore.

They wake me up to ask if I’m ready to talk, to eat, to comply, and every time they ask I stay silent and wait for them to put me back under.

It feels like I’ve been here before, that I’ve always been here, different voices, different rooms, but always the same. I’m asleep. I’m awake. I’m asked if I’m ready to cooperate and when I say no I’m asleep again. It’s like a clock that keeps going round and round and round. I can’t escape it.

I push to the surface again, breaking through enough to open my eyes this time. I’m still in the white room, bright and unyielding. But everything starts to fade as I struggle to stay awake.

“This should counteract the effects, or rather help her notice the effects,” the steady voice of Beetee Latier says from behind me. I know it from the museum, from footage and history. He did a lot for the Capitol back before he betrayed it.

There’s a hand brushing through my hair, it’s calloused and rough, but gentle at the same time. It feels familiar in a way that I can’t figure out. It lulls me back beneath the surface of waking and into the ocean of sleep. Only this time, there’s a feeling of peace in it.

“Is it safe?” The sound of the question radiates through the hand in my hair and the peace shatters. I push against the surface, harder than before trying to break through as the light blinds me. I blink, trying to focus on Katniss Everdeen. I want her to see that I’m awake. That I’m not afraid of her.

I want her to see that I’m going to be the one who kills her.

My breathing is unsteady as I fight the drugs to sit up, to get to her. She’s my way out. If I kill her, I’ll die here, but the Capitol will win. Her hand is gone from my head when I force myself to move, when I pull my arm I find there’s no restraint, that it hangs from the side of the bed like it’s been forgotten.

Their mistake is my only chance.

“I’ll kill you,” I mumble out, “I’ll kill you,” I keep repeating until I’m standing on unsteady feet, pushing forward. I try to hit her, scratch her, do anything to take her out. But I’m too weak, the drugs too strong and too saturated in my system. I stumble forward, falling towards the floor in an ungraceful dive.

She catches me before I hit the ground. She catches me and she steadies me even as I try to push against her. I can’t will my heavy limbs to move or fight anymore and she does nothing to restrain me, to hurt me back. She guides me back to the bed, much too gently for someone who thinks their life is in danger, her eyes bordering on tears as she does.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” her voice is too calm, too…motherly. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit the narrative, what I’ve always known about her. A ringing overshadows her voice as she keeps talking, “I’m sorry. Please, Ivy, let us help. Sleep.” I hear boots enter the room and the click of restraints being re-attached as the pressure on my wrists returns.

“Is that really necessary?” Katniss asks.

“You heard her,” a man’s voice I don’t recognize answers, “She said she’d kill you.”

“Gale, she won’t,” Katniss argues.

There’s the distinct sound of a frustrated exhale before, “She’s President Snow’s daughter now, right? Why wouldn’t she try to kill you? Why wouldn’t she help them?” the man called Gale asks in a tone that’s harsh and unyielding.

“What are you saying? Give up?”

“It’s been two weeks with no change. It might be time for a different approach, for her to tell us something,” he states.

“Get out,” Katniss orders and there’s another frustrated breath before the heavy boots march out of the room.

I feel the prick of another needle and the ringing stops as the chain pulls me down into the ocean again and the world disappears.

I lose track of the days as I’m woken up and put back under. Prim comes and goes, always with food, always trying to get me to eat but every time I refuse and the IV stays in. I never see anyone else. I never see Katniss Everdeen again but I know she’s watching. I can feel her watching and there are times when I don’t find it unwelcome to know she’s there.

Sometimes my head pounds, sometimes I feel pain that isn’t there. Sometimes there’s a ringing and sometimes there’s silence. Sometimes I feel like screaming and sometimes I feel like crying but I don’t know why.

I know and I’ve accepted I’m never getting out of here. There’s a part of me that’s afraid to admit that I feel relieved when I think about that fact. When I open my eyes to the white room, I feel safe and I can’t explain why.

Most times I’m asleep I dream of home. The mansion. The Capitol. I see the bright, clean streets and the colorful people. There are dreams where I see caring, green eyes and I feel calm. There’s the taste of pastries I can’t remember the name of. The sight of Mother planning to fight, to win this war. There are maps on the walls and on her desk, a group of advisors around her and the plans can’t fail, they won’t fail.

I dream of Mother rescuing me, but her face changes and the room isn’t white it’s a dark red and there’s a screaming that never ends. There are dreams where I see the mansion and it doesn’t feel like home at all. There’s a yellow-green haze around it, like a halo that doesn’t quite fit, it feels wrong to look at the mansion when it’s like that and those memories burn.

There’s a cool cloth on my head that soothes and then it’s gone. There are wires attached to me that connect to machines and the room is red and then there’s only the IV and the room is white. The restraints are made of metal and they’re made of leather. There’s electricity coursing through my veins and no pain at all. There’s the yellow-green haze and the sound of Mother’s voice and there’s a green plant with flowers that tastes bitter and the sound of someone singing.

I see the rose garden Great-Grandfather spent his time in. I walk past the too brightly colored roses and the smell is overwhelming. It stays with me as I open my eyes and a wave of nausea follows. A lot of those memories seem to make me nauseous.

I blame the drugs.

I hear laughter, sarcastic but warm, like it can’t believe what it’s seeing in me and yet wants me to know that it still cares. It’s far away, too far away to be real. It must still be the drugs.

Once I dream of a meadow. It’s bright with tall grass that I run through. There are three shadows with me, their faces unclear, not fully formed. Still, I feel safe, even as I chase the smaller shadow in front of me, I smile. There’s no yellow-green haze here, just the sun.

I hear thunder and rain and I wake up with tears running down my face, though I don’t know why. I don’t feel sick after this dream. I just feel sad.

I wait for Prim to bring me the next dose, to put me back under, but she never shows up. The haze of the drugs wears off and for the first time the world focuses. I find that I’m starving. I want real food. I want to be out of this room. I just want to see the sun.

“Are you there?” I ask, my voice hoarse from disuse, “I’m done. I’ll eat, I’ll tell you whatever. Just get this IV out, please, don’t put me back to sleep.”

I feel like I’m betraying Mother but I’m too hungry and too tired of fighting to care.

Prim comes in and removes the IV a moment later but she doesn’t have any food with her. She doesn’t even stay. She just smiles as she pulls the needle from my arm and puts a bandage over it. Then, she leaves and I’m alone in the white room, looking at myself in the mirror.

I look horrible. I’m thinner than I was when I got here. My eyes are sunken, almost bruised looking. I look worn out, tired, even though I’ve done nothing but sleep. My limbs are heavy from not being used and all I want to do is get out of this bed. All I want is to walk around and eat something that wasn’t given to me through a tube in my arm.

About a minute later Katniss Everdeen comes through the door and I feel the same weight I always felt when I knew she was staring at me through the window. She’s carrying a few pieces of bread and I no longer care about the gray color of it. Of course they’d make me take this peace offering from her. Of course Thirteen would do this to me, test my will, break me down, accept their Mockingjay.

I wonder what comes next, what questions will be asked, what the next torture will be. I shake my head because somehow that feels wrong. It doesn’t feel like torture, it’s not the right word for it. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this isn’t the true definition of torture, that this isn’t the right use of the word, but I can’t find the place where I know it.

Katniss sucks in a breath at the sight of me and I want to pull on the restraints, I want to run, but I don’t. I know they’ll just put me back under if I do. There’s a dull ringing in the back of my head that I try to ignore, even as it radiates and grows.

“Hello, Ivy,” she greets, her voice tepid, measured, controlled.

She glances from me to the restraints and there’s a deep sadness that burns through her eyes, even more than the look I received from Prim. It’s pained, the sight of a wounded animal that’s still fighting, and there’s love in that look too, a mixture I can’t quite put together but something I’m entirely unfamiliar with. The only description of it is a mother’s look, but I’ve never seen that look from Mother back home.

_Why do you think that is?_

The voice is a whisper in the back of my head, new, yet familiar. I can hear the same laughter in it that I thought I heard before, the same sarcasm and resolve.

I look around for the source but there’s no one else in the room besides Katniss and myself. For some reason I find myself staring at Katniss’ eyes, like the whisper came from them, but I know they didn’t. I shake my head, willing the voice and the laughter to go away. It’s just side effects from the drugs. That or I’m going crazy, which wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility down here.

No, Mother wouldn’t allow them to drive me to this. I won’t allow it. I focus on the Victor in front of me. The Mockingjay. The reason for this rebellion. The source of Mother’s hatred and my current predicament. I try to find the hatred, to let it build and focus on her, but it’s like there’s a block like I’m numb.

Still, I don’t say anything. I just stare. She seems hurt by the look I give her, a hurt she covers up, and I hope Mother would be proud. I blink trying to ignore the throb that starts behind my eyes as the ringing gets louder.

She loosens the restraints and hands me the bread. I bite into it, not caring that it tastes like cardboard or that the crumbs land on the blanket covering my lap. I’m starving. It doesn’t matter how it tastes or how it looks.

I half expect to hear the whisper again, making some comment about how I said I’d never accept food from anyone here. But there’s no voice, no laughter, there’s only the ringing in my head. The bread settles and I feel stronger, more awake.

Katniss watches me, arms crossed over her chest like she’s waiting for me to do something, try something.

“What do you want?” I croak out, my voice still dry and cracked.

“I want to help you,” the words are awkward and heavy, like she isn’t sure as she says them, like she’d rather be saying something else.

“Help?” I laugh. “If you wanted to help I wouldn’t be stuck in here. You would send me home.”

“I know you don’t want to believe it, but this is home, at least for now.” There’s a deep sadness that surrounds her at the mention of home and I remember seeing footage of a destroyed District, of fire and ash. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel about it, satisfied, disappointed, instead I feel nothing.

She looks at me again, “I don’t want you in here anymore than you want to be in here but you’re not yourself. I’m trying to get you out. Your father, Peeta, is too.”

“He’s not my father and you’re not my mother,” I tell her, angry, the pain behind my eyes getting worse the more this goes on, fracturing across my skull like lightning, “You’re just lying to try to get me on your side or fighting for you. It won’t work.”

“I’m not lying. I love you, Ivy. I know I never said it, not enough, not as much as you deserved but it’s true and I’m going to prove it to you.”

The ringing reaches a crescendo I can no longer bear. I close my eyes against the pain. My head feels like it’s breaking in half. The rebels must have done this to me. Beetee and Katniss did this. They’re making this happen, this torture.

And this time I feel like the word torture is right, that this is the first sentence of the definition of a word I should know well, though I still can’t find why, or understand my certainty in it.

“Stop!” I scream against the ringing, “Please, stop! Why are you doing this?!”

“I’m not doing anything,” Katniss says, her voice pitched and full of fear.

“It hurts,” I shout, “Stop! It hurts!” Tears fall from my eyes as my head falls forward and the world burns. Two hands catch me, the same hands that caught me before, the same rough, calloused but gentle hands that brushed through my hair. A thumb rubs against my cheek and I keep my eyes closed as pain fractures from my head through every muscle in my body.

“Ivy,” Katniss says, repeating my name over and over but all it does is make me hurt more.

“Get away from me!” I thrash, pushing her away from me. It feels like I’m being electrocuted over and over, my skin ripping and tearing, my entire body flayed open. I start to scream, I can’t feel anything but pain.

I see a flash of something I’m not quite sure is real. A house that’s not in the Capitol, but somewhere else, somewhere that should be surrounded by ash but isn’t. It feels warm there, it feels safe. I see Katniss at the door of the house and she smiles.

When I blink back into reality I look at her and I feel something familiar, a whisper of something true, but then all I feel is pain.

Prim rushes in with Beetee wheeling in behind her. A man dressed in the black of the rebel soldiers follows and pushes me down.

“Gale,” Katniss tries, pushing against the soldier. I stare into his eyes as the needle pierces my arm but he can’t look at me. The pain subsides and the world begins to fade as I hear the click of the restraints put securely back in place.

“She recognized me,” Katniss says, her voice wavering, “She looked at me before and she…it was her…what happened?”

“A counter measure. Conditioning,” Beetee says as my eyes grow heavy and close.

“Against what?” Katniss asks.

“Against you.”

I smell roses and hear Mother laughing and it’s not the same laugh I heard from the whisper before, this one isn’t warm this one is cold and ruthless. It scares me in a way it never did before.

_Believe her…_

The kind whisper returns and it’s the last thing I hear before I’m pulled under by the drugs once again.

Katniss –

“What happened?” I ask Beetee as he looks over his data culled from Ivy’s blood and the scans of her brain done while she was asleep.

“Something good.”

“How is it good?”

“Because if she reacted that badly, that means they couldn’t make her forget you completely so they had to put in conditioning to counteract it. If she gets too close to something real, there’s a pain response. Memories of you cause her pain because she’s not allowed to remember them. We just have to get her to push through the pain and find the truth underneath, then she’ll be able to build her memories again.” Beetee writes in a chart.

It’s been almost a month since Ivy was rescued. A month of fighting in Two with nothing changing, a month of Peeta and I taking shifts to watch Ivy from behind the glass while she sleeps in a drug induced coma and they run tests. Every time I look at her my heart breaks and heals all the same. She’s alive. She’s here. She’s safe, even if she doesn’t believe it, even if I’m not quite sure she’ll ever be herself again. She’s alive and she’s safe.

But sometimes I look at Gale and I wonder how safe she will be for long, if they truly will jump to questioning her, like they have been with Cain. I’m not allowed to watch those interrogations but I see Gale return with bruises on his knuckles and blood that isn’t his on his shirt and I wish I could.

Peeta spends hours training with Gloss or painting. I train too, trying to keep my mind off of what’s happening with Ivy. Coin lets me go outside to hunt and I bring back food on occasion. Gale went with me once, and it felt like when we were younger, silent and alone out in the woods, but since he started questioning Cain, since he started inching around the subject of questioning Ivy, the distance has grown again. I usually go by myself, the isolation better for me.

I encounter Beck and Finnick throwing tridents at targets one day in the training field. Beck seems to be healing more each day, throwing with ease. He watches me, looking for any sign that something’s changed with Ivy, but he never asks. I think Finnick has told him not to and he’s respecting that request.

The tests have only proven what Beetee already suspected, but today was different. Today Beetee told me to try to talk to her, that she might be able to tell that some of her memories are fake after giving his serum a chance to work. That’s what the new tests showed apparently. I wish I hadn’t tried. I caused her pain. I’m causing it to be worse.

Peeta comes into the lab a second later. “Gale told me you woke her up,” he says, “Why didn’t you come get me?”

I shake my head, “I don’t know. It happened fast.”

He puts a hand on my cheek, “Are you okay?” I nod even though I’m not.

“I’m hurting her, whatever they did, I’m part of it. I can’t be around her,” I say.

“No, Katniss,” Beetee tells me, “The Capitol is hurting her. It’s not on you.” Beetee adjusts his glasses and stares at the data again, there’s a solemn weight to him. He hasn’t brought up interrogation, if anything he’s fighting Gale on it more each day. Whatever he tells Coin about Ivy, she hasn’t ordered anything different to be done.

“All of this. It’s on me,” he admits. He takes a heavy breath, dropping the papers around him.

“What do you mean?” Peeta asks, taking a step forward.

“I came up with the theory back when I…when I worked for them. They wanted to know if there was a way to make people more compliant, loyal. I knew what saying no meant, so I did it.” His hands grip the side of his chair, “I collected data. I had test subjects, volunteers who didn’t know what they were volunteering for because the Capitol forced them into it. I figured out how to attack the fear response. I invented it. I created the serum made from tracker jacker venom.”

Beetee swallows the thickness in his throat, his eyes focused on his desk, unable to look at me or Peeta. “When it came time to present the results, I told them it was a failure, that attachment and false loyalty could always be overwritten no matter how much fear and pain they put the subjects through. And in that I wasn’t lying, I erased my research, gave them fragments but…I gave them enough, a blueprint that they were able to improve on. It was my research that gave them the tools to harm your daughter.” He finally turns to look at Peeta and me. “I will fix this, I will make it right. I promise.”

There’s a long silence before Peeta places a hand on Beetee’s shoulder, “It’s like you said, you had to. You couldn’t say no. You weren’t the one who put her through the process, you weren’t the one who did this to her, you were just a tool they used like all of us.”

“I created the tool they used.”

“No,” I add, knowing full well the Capitol’s hold over all of its Victors, “If you hadn’t they would have gotten someone else and they would have just killed you or someone you cared about.”

“But you know what they worked from,” Peeta says with a nod of reassurance, “So you can fix her.”

Beetee nods, “I think I might have a way to overwrite the override. But it could go bad and I don’t know that it’ll work or that you’ll want to put her through it.” He takes a breath, the cloud of guilt around him evaporating the more he talks.

“What is it?” Peeta asks. My heart pounds in my throat like it’s anticipating something horrible, something worse than what we’ve already seen.

“We have to put her in a situation that mimics the fear they created, but that also has an emotional connection for her to attach to. One she can’t ignore or fight against.” Beetee turns towards one of the lab computers and pulls up an image on the screen. I hold my breath as my heart plummets from my throat to my stomach. I recognize it from my nightmares and the reality with which those nightmares were born from.

Her Arena.

“No, no, she’s not going back there,” Peeta argues, his voice high and his hands clenched at his sides. “We’re not doing that to her.”

“The Arena is the last place she truly feared for her life aside from the Capitol and it’s not like we can send her there.”

“What about here?” I ask, “She’s afraid here.”

“She can’t break the conditioning here. She knows inherently that you won’t hurt her, that she’s safe here unless Coin and Gale were to change that and finally start questioning, which they won’t unless I tell them to and I won’t tell them to. No, we need to attack the fear response directly.”

Peeta shakes his head, “After you just tried to apologize for creating it, you want to repeat your experiment?”

Beetee continues, “Yes. She’ll attach to the memories she can’t run from and she’ll be able to notice the differences between the artificial and the real, definitively without pain.”

“Or she’ll end up worse,” Peeta says, “You inject her with more of the same crap and she’ll just be more terrified of the same things. She won’t come back. She’ll never learn to trust us. What if she dies in there? Or she tries to kill someone or herself? What then? Coin won’t let her back out. They will question her and she’ll be stuck in that room for the rest of her life.”

“It’s a risk but it’s the only risk you have. She can’t and she won’t find the memories here, especially with the aversion they put in against Katniss. She’ll never come back in Thirteen. I have to run a few more tests with her awake but from the scans while she was dreaming, the only way is fear. True fear and pain. You saw it today,” Beetee points to me, “She was afraid and she was in pain and she looked at you, and she saw you.”

“I don’t know what she saw,” I reply, my thoughts back in her Arena, in watching her survive, in being helpless to do anything for her or Bas. “You want her to relive Bas’ death. That’s who she can’t find here.”

“When we first did the experiments, emotional pain, it always beat the serum. Love forced the subject to fight harder against what we were doing. The Capitol wouldn’t have been able to get rid of Bas any more than they could get rid of you. My theory is they didn’t need to add anything with him because there was no need to condition against him. Not when he’s no longer a threat.”

Peeta takes a heavy breath. I look at him as he works to understand but he knows, like I know, this is the only way. This is the only chance. Beetee’s right. He created it, he knows the weaknesses, what he says is true.

“It’ll be safe, as safe as I can make it. It’ll feel like she’s dreaming…”

“It’ll feel like a nightmare. This isn’t the way,” Peeta says to me, pointing at the Arena on the screen, “I won’t force her back into that Hell.”

“Then we ask her and she chooses for herself,” I say.

“What?” Peeta asks.

“Katniss, she doesn’t know who you are, she can’t choose between you and the Capitol if she only knows what they’ve taught her,” Beetee tells me.

“Then figure out a way to keep her from being in pain whenever she sees me and let Peeta and I take her out of that room, show her where we live, get her used to Thirteen. Because I saw it and I know she saw it too, saw me. I’m not going to throw her in an Arena with the hope that she’ll come out of it okay. Not unless she knows what she’s going in there for. She didn’t have a choice the first time, she should now,” I argue, my voice strong and certain, my heart more sure in this moment than it has been about anything before.

Beetee’s silent for a long time after that until he asks, “And if she does decide to go?”

“Then she goes,” Peeta answers, “Can you do it?”

“I think so. But it’s not my decision whether or not she’s allowed out.” Beetee reaches for notes, looking through formulas and photographs, lost in thought.

“I’ll talk to Coin,” I tell Peeta, marching out of the lab, carrying the weight of this moment on my back far better than any weight before. I know where she’ll be. I know where she’s always been. In meetings, strategizing, making her case for whatever the next step is when it comes to District Two.

It’s been a back and forth, gaining small ground only to be pushed back again. Two is far more formidable and with a stronghold even better than the Capitol. I think of what to say, of where to push, what information to bring up and use.

I’m the Mockingjay but that only holds so much weight. I have to give Coin something more, something she’s been thinking about since Ivy came here.

I find Coin in a meeting with Plutarch and Gale, exactly where I knew she’d be. There’s an image of District Two up on the screen.

“Katniss,” Plutarch greets, but I ignore him.

“Ivy needs to be allowed out,” I say.

“We can’t trust her,” Coin argues, “She could escape. She could reveal our location to the Capitol. She could do any number of things.”

“Not if she trusts us.”

“And why do you think she would?”

I swallow hard, uncertain on my argument. Peeta should have done this but I was so determined, so in a rush to do it, this was a mistake.

“Because you let her out and she learns to trust you,” Plutarch offers. “Right, Katniss?”

I nod, “We have a plan. Beetee has a plan to help her.”

“It’s a mistake,” Gale speaks up, his voice firm. I stare at him, of all people, to go against me, to go against Ivy. He continues, “She had an episode when she woke up. She saw Katniss and she tried to kill her. Whatever your plan is, it won’t work. I think you need to accept that she might be gone.”

I shake my head, of all people to talk about accepting others who are gone, to talk about people not coming back, “I saw her. The real her. She’s not gone. She’s not,” My eyes find Coin, “Talk to Beetee. Find out for yourself.”

“And what happens if my decision stands?” Coin asks.

“Find yourself another Mockingjay.”

“Ultimatums only work when you have leverage. Rescue her or no Mockingjay. Help her or no Mockingjay. You’ve done your job, I don’t think we need a Mockingjay when we’re close to winning now,” Coin states, coolly.

I glance at the screen, symbols that indicate our side and symbols that indicate the loyalists, it’s even, always even.

“And yet,” Haymitch clears his throat, “Madam President, it would appear that District Two does need the Mockingjay.”

Coin looks between Haymitch and me.

“And you need a team of advisors, which I’m sure you had before we got here. I mean, after all, twenty five years got you pretty far, didn’t it?” Haymitch asks with a smirk in his eyes.

“It still doesn’t mean anything, I put my neck on the line it has to be for some purpose. The people around here were distrustful of you, they kept asking why now, but your actions put that aside, but now if they see Ivy running around, your daughter, a traitor to them, regardless of the circumstances, what will they say?”

“She warned us of the attack.”

“After she stood with Reagan Snow at the funeral. Regardless of her warning, that image doesn’t fade in their minds. I am trying to win in Two, I need my people to trust me, to believe in me and this mission. How can I do that? How can I ask them to trust me if I do that?”

“You tell them she’ll tell you what she’s seen, what she knows from being held prisoner in the Capitol and she’ll do it willingly.”

Plutarch leans back in his chair, a look of admiration on his face, “She would have seen their plans, especially if Reagan was keeping her as close to her as possible.”

There’s a long silence as Coin weighs the options, she glances back to the map, of the dead even fight still waging in Two.

Finally she clears her throat, making the decision, “If Beetee confirms that the threat she poses can be contained, I’ll allow her out. But she’ll be monitored at all times, her location always known and someone always with her, no exceptions.”

I nod in agreement, “Thank you,” I say before leaving. Gale’s hard stare follows me out. I don’t look back. He can believe what he wants. It’s not true and he’ll see it along with everyone else.

I have hope. For the first time in a month, I have something real and tangible to hold onto. I saw how she looked at me, for a moment it was the old her, whether she was aware of it or not, she was there.

I have to bring her back. I can bring her back.

I find Peeta in our living unit and the second I get in the room I wrap my arms around him in a tight hug.

“How’d it go?” He asks.

“Coin agreed, well she’s going to talk to Beetee, but she’ll let Ivy out.” I take a breath, my first real breath since Ivy has been gone, and I feel lighter even with the weight that’s now bearing down on me to fix my daughter.

“Just like that?” He asks and I swallow hard, afraid to tell him but knowing keeping the secret would be far worse in the end.

“Once Ivy’s better, Coin wants to talk to her.”

“You mean interrogate her,” Peeta argues, anger rising. I put my hands on his chest keeping him in place.

“No. Ivy will want to tell her, she’ll want to help. Think about it. She’s seen the Capitol and it’s plans, she’ll want to help us win. We can have her back, Peeta. All she has to do is tell Coin what she saw.”

“But what if she doesn’t know anything? What if that’s not all Coin wants?” He asks.

I swallow hard, “Then we deal with it then. But for now. We can have her back.”

“We can have her back,” Peeta repeats, the grim air around him fading as he breaks into a smile despite the fear. He glows when he smiles, when it’s genuine and bright, it’s like the sun and I can’t help but stare. And this doesn’t feel like a moment worth smiling about, not with all the pain and suffering that has led up to it, not with all the damage that’s sure to follow. But it’s a small victory and if it can elicit that smile from him, I don’t care how small the victory, it’s been too long since I’ve seen that smile and I’ll take the moment.

He grips my hand in his own and then my mouth finds him, trying to find that light, that smile, the dandelion in the spring. There’s a hunger deep and pained building in my stomach as I guide him to the bed and he lets me. He returns my kisses with a fever of his own as the heat builds between us.

This moment feels right, it feels like finding a light in the darkness, it feels like finding home.

_“And I feel life for the very first time_   
_Love in my arms and the sun in my eyes_   
_I feel safe in the 5am light_   
_You carry my fears as the heavens set fire”_

  * Technicolour Beat – Oh Wonder



 


End file.
